


What We Are

by vertual



Series: Engines [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rating for sex and violence and a few potty mouths, Relationship(s), Sherlock is a bit in trouble, but they will, cases, hopefully, it gets miserable, some things make little sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 11:03:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4135113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vertual/pseuds/vertual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Limits are tested after Sherlock disappears on a sunny afternoon.</p><p>Set four months after Engines.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to do a proper multi-chapter follow-up to Engines before I'd even finished, so here's that thing. I hope to be as proud of this one as I am of the first. I've set this story up with Engines and Homecoming in a series for anyone who digs that sort of thing.
> 
> If you're a timeline person, Engines ended March 15, Homecoming was April 10, and this starts July 27. I used the blog for the date of the Watsons' wedding, putting it in August instead of May. Anyway, on with the show.

The woman who calls herself Rhiannon Fletcher stops for every street performer she encounters, dropping a five pound note in each hat and case and thanking the buskers before moving on. To a casual observer she is an overly cheery, baby-faced woman, but to Sherlock Holmes, she is a former government agent whose leanness disguises her alarming strength of limb.

“You're going to run out of money if you keep doing that every time you walk somewhere,” he reminds her, but without conviction. They both know she can purchase a fully-furnished house for cash if she ever felt the need for one. As it stands, she seems comfortable in a hotel suite.

“You know how much effort it takes to learn an instrument,” Fletcher argues pleasantly. “And then having the confidence to play in front of a city of strangers! I’d never do it.”

Unwilling to mention his own experience playing for money, Sherlock gives a bored hum to signal the end of his contributing to the discussion. He almost expects the talkative creature beside him to open with a different topic as they round the corner and head away from Scotland Yard, but he does not mind at all that no more words are shared as they walk toward the little blue car parked a short way up the road.

With all the taxis driving around London he never saw a reason to own a vehicle, but with the Fiesta’s near-constant availability, he finds he doesn’t mind driving in the city. He’s surprised Fletcher lets him near the car at all after he stole it back in March, and remains baffled that she will willingly hand him the key. Not today, though, as she goes directly for the driver’s side.

“So was it me,” she says, turning on the engine and pulling into the road, “or was that a little boring? I’ve dealt with embezzlement before but that was... bland.”

Sherlock turns to examine the runner he’s found himself working with, looking at the platinum-dyed hair, the inches of brown roots growing out on top, and the strangely round face it all frames, wondering if Mycroft saw the oddity he sees. He finds her strange-looking, vastly disproportionate: a thirty-two-year-old with the face of an eleven-year-old, the figure of a long-trained acrobat, and the vocabulary of an expletive-fond minor, all packaged in dark form-fitting clothing and a too-big hand-me-down leather jacket. He’s certain she keeps that particular item around to make herself look smaller, as he similarly uses his Belstaff to appear taller. Different tactics seeking the same outcome, although he doesn’t have any feather-light armour lining the inside of his coat.

In the few months she’s been assisting him, Sherlock has noticed that Fletcher is incredibly helpful and vastly invested in other people’s happiness. For all intents and purposes, she is a mother hen, and one discreet enough that she possesses the power to make people talk. Her combination of approachable and influential makes getting on people’s good sides so effortless that she has pulled confessions out of suspects on more than one occasion just by asking nicely.

He's constantly trying to wrap his head around the fact that she can make _him_ talk as well. How is it that he can be apprehensive to confide in the people who have been around for years but have no problem with his brother's former minion, who showed up half a year ago?

Obvious: it was her job to keep secrets while jumping from place to place, and she did it long enough that it’s become ingrained in her personality. He's not afraid she'll sell him out for anything.

“If you’ve dealt with embezzlement before, I’m sure it was,” he replies a second later. Then, “How do you feel about babies?”

Her nose puckers and he immediately knows her answer. “Why? You getting tired of borrowing Rosie Watson all the time? You love her more than you love yourself.”

“As if that’s some sort of amazing feat.”

“Hey, no. I told your girlfriend you were working on the self-loathing thing. You’re—”

“Worth the people in my life,” he says robotically. Each time he’s made to say it he tries to convince himself that eventually he’ll believe it. Today doesn’t seem to be that day, so he moves on. “I’m quite happy borrowing Rosamund. It’s Molly I’m curious about.”

Fletcher's eyes leave the road for the first time to look at him as if he’s just said he’s thinking about becoming a professional juggler. When he shrugs, she rolls her eyes and returns to her surveillance of the traffic ahead.

“Shouldn’t you be talking to _her_ , then? Or maybe a friend you aren’t paying to keep around, one that’s already a parent? What makes you think I’m qualified to have this conversation?”

“Call it considering the consideration.” No need to explain that he’s thoroughly mulled over his options. If he were to mention it to John or Mary, it would very quickly get to Molly and potentially all over the place through Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. And he doesn’t want to bring it up to Molly yet, not when he’s still unsure if he wants to at all. What he wants at this stage is an objective opinion and radio silence.

“Fine, then. Get a pen.”

“I’ll retain it.”

“You’d better retain it,” she says sternly, a crease appearing on her forehead. “To start off, she only moved in three months ago. I know you said you’ve had feelings for her for a while but you’ve only actually been together for what, seven months? Around the time I was assigned to you, anyway. Not saying everyone isn’t happy for you, but for people as busy as you two, it may be too early to start thinking about a family.

 “I’ve heard you can make good decisions on the fly but that’s a whole person’s life you’re talking about, and the rest of yours and Molly's.” Her face seems to flicker in the pause, eyes deadening for such a short fraction that he may have just imagined it. “You’ve got to be ready for it. And if you’re asking _me_ for _baby_ advice, you’re not. If you really want progeny you should spend a lot of time thinking about it.”

“How long?”

“Really long. Or at least a couple more months.”

“Your wisdom astounds me.”

“At least something does. Now don’t talk, I’m ringing.”

Twisting slightly to reach into her front pocket, Fletcher manages to extract her mobile before the fourth ring, all while keeping one hand firmly on the steering wheel. She glances at the caller ID before swiping her thumb across the screen and hitting the loudspeaker button.

“Yes, dear?”

“Hi!” Molly’s greeting comes through the phone brightly. “Are you doing dim sum with us tonight? John and Mary said they’re coming. It’s going to be a sort of ‘happy early anniversary’ thing. What time is your flight tomorrow?”

“Where are you going?” Sherlock inquires, taking the phone so Fletcher can use both hands to navigate, the sight of her driving one-handed making his stomach turn even at the low city speed limit. One time in the passenger seat while she took a call doing a hundred and eighty kilometres per hour on the German Autobahn was enough for a lifetime.

“Toronto, Sherlock. And the flight's at eight-thirty, so no worries. We’re on our way back to base now.”

“See you soon.”

“Bye.”

Sherlock disconnects the call and places the phone upright in the cup holder between the seats.

“Before you say anything, she does know we don’t have to feed you.”

A large smile settles on Fletcher's round face. “I think it's sweet. As long as you don’t mind having me, I’ll keep accepting your food.”

“Remind me how long you're gone.”

“Couple weeks, could be more. My mum wanted me home for the long weekend at least.”

_And who are you when you're at home?_

He asked once why Lestrade referred to her as Annie, but she was bloody and cross at the time, and the subject hasn’t come up since then. She doesn’t seem to mind sharing and her past comes up in conversation more often than his does, but he’s always had the inkling that Rhiannon Fletcher isn’t the woman’s real name. It’s logical that it wouldn’t be; she seems incredibly fond of her family, so she could very well have changed it to cut ties just in case. He supposes it would be unfair to ask, and to expect her to tell him when he doesn’t even go by his own given name. Her identity is her business, and whether Rhiannon Fletcher is the name she was given or the name she chose, it’s obviously the one she prefers, and therefore it’s the one he’ll use for her.

It doesn’t stop him being curious, though. There’s always something that has him tangled.

* * *

 

Every now and then, a moment occurs in a person’s life that leaves them pleasantly surprised. Sometimes they’ll think about it for a short while, about how these moments seem to be too few and far in between. Then they’ll make a point of enjoying the simple things for a time, until the idea is forgotten among the activities of a busy day. And then, when another such event finds its way to existence, the process repeats. And it keeps repeating. Appreciation, distraction, repeat.

Moments like this have become such a frequent occurrence in Molly’s life that she can physically feel her happiness. They’re such small things, some so insignificant that other people wouldn’t notice them at all, but with all the madness she’s experienced in recent months, the less fascinating details are catching more of her attention. She can’t remember ever being this content, even when she thought she was going to be getting married soon.

Even now, she wonders how she managed to end up with Sherlock at all. It’s ridiculous to look back on how hard she tried to get his attention at first, putting so much effort into impressing him and getting nothing for it. Then she decided the hero worship wasn’t worth it, grew up, and started acting like the intelligent woman she knew herself to be. She shouldn’t have doubted herself.

The issue she’s still working is her diminished patience with other people’s stubbornness, and in a tiny moment of annoyance after an unpleasant day she can forget that Sherlock’s mind works differently than hers, which tends to lead to raised voices and painful silence. Thankfully those spats are few and far in between, and it all becomes easier by the day.

There are times, though, when she craves his company and becomes jealous of the former government agent taking up his time. She adores Rhiannon, and she’s incredibly grateful for her being around, but she does envy the time she gets with Sherlock, even though she knows they’re only working. Doing cases with Sherlock has become one of Molly’s favourite activities when their schedules line up, and she often wishes she’d been in the runner’s shoes when Sherlock gives his account of a day’s adventures.

The evenings when they get to sit around and relax are not few and far in between, but they always make Molly feel lucky. He’s so cool and professional when they’re anywhere else, scrunching his nose at other people’s public displays of affection and rarely getting closer than holding her hand and kissing her on the cheek.

Within the walls of 221B Baker Street, though, Sherlock is affectionate enough to make up for it ten times over. It’s as if he’s trying to make as much contact as possible. She’s noticed how much he enjoys dancing, often plucking her from her seat to pull her close and move in slow circles around the sitting room, even if there’s no music on. He goes to his violin just as frequently to play whatever tune is on his mind, and when he knows she’s stopped to listen, he’ll play the melody he created for her. Sometimes they just laze, with the first person to drop onto the sofa being the pillow for the other.

At the moment, none of this is on her mind. She is engrossed by the scene before her, so much so that she doesn’t want to look away to pick up her phone and capture the image. The way Sherlock’s attention is completely devoted to Rosamund, anyone could think he is the girl’s father, and not just a family friend. Currently, he is standing by the window looking out at the street below, a little mint green towel on his shoulder and his hand tapping on Rosie’s back. She can see his reflection in the window, and the soft smile on his lips makes Molly wonder what exactly is going on in that beautiful brain of his when he holds Rosie, all chubby limbs and a tuft of yellow hair. It doesn’t take much effort for her to imagine tiny cartoon hearts floating around his head.

It’s uplifting to see him at peace. He seems so much more healed when he’s with Rosie. Then again, Molly has heard the same said about herself, that she makes him better, that he’s noticeably happier, et cetera, et cetera. It doesn’t seem fair to be praised for helping him keep his feet on solid ground; even if she hadn’t agreed to that first date she’d have still taken it upon herself to support him in any way she could. Friends help friends, after all.

“Look, mate,” John says, making another attempt to get his child back from her doting uncle. “Just get your own if you like the work so much.”

She looks over to the pair on the sofa just in time to see Mary give her husband a light shove, the wide smile on her face showing how much she trusts Sherlock with Rosie. For just a second, Molly’s mind presents the image of Sherlock holding a tiny black-haired baby, telling stories in hushed tones while the little eyes drift closed and the hands loosen from tiny fists. Instead of waving it away as fancy she holds on to it, imagining the softness of a little warm hand wrapped around a single one of her fingers.

“Sharing is caring,” Rhiannon says from the kitchen doorway, apparently finished putting the food away – at her own insistence – and making her way to sit on the floor beside the coffee table. “Let him have his practice run.”

Her words are punctuated by a hiccup and a tiny belch from Rosie.

“Well done,” Sherlock says proudly, turning away from the window to return his girl to Mary.

“So how was your case today?” she inquires, scooping up the infant and taking the burping blanket from Sherlock.

“Unimpressive,” he says, completing the circle around the table by sitting down beside the chair Molly claimed earlier. Her fingers automatically move to play with his hair when he leans back.

“Startlingly unimpressive,” Rhiannon agrees. “I’m hoping my next two weeks make up for it.”

“Don’t forget to come back,” Molly reminds her.

“Must I?”

Molly nudges Sherlock with her leg and he looks up at her with a raised brow. She grins down at him and he smiles back before returning to leaning against her.

“This one might need your help at some point.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock watches with amusement as Molly moves back and forth through the flat in search of a shirt. One specific shirt, apparently, as she keeps repeating “Where is it?” while she hops between rooms, the white fabric of her rose-patterned skirt swishing about her knees. She hasn’t asked for help, so he remains in his chair, peering over the heavy Wells volume he was reading at the skin of her near-bare back. Her self-awareness seems at a low when the doors are closed, as she appears not to notice that she’s running around with only a white bra covering her top half.

He’s caught staring when she exits the kitchen for the fourth time. She stops and looks at him sternly, hands on hips, about as frightening as a baby canary.

“Where are you hiding it?”

“You haven’t even said which one you’re looking for,” he replies calmly, letting his eyes flit down to his book before coming back up to meet her glare. “Have you asked your cat?”

She turns around with a huff, stomping back to the bedroom in search of either the blouse or the feline. He hears her snap at Toby to get out from under the bed, and seconds later the cat shoots out of the kitchen and settles under the coffee table. Molly returns carrying a white blouse, attempting to shake the orange and white fur out of the fabric.

“Bad Toby!” she scolds, to the complete disinterest of the already-snoozing culprit. “He’s probably hidden the roller somewhere too. Does he do this to you?”

Still holding the book, Sherlock gets up and walks to the bedroom, Molly’s bare feet padding along behind his own. Upon reaching the wardrobe, now organised for two, he turns and examines Molly’s skirt, tilting his head to see the varying shades of red in the pattern. He flicks through the hangers carrying her summer clothes and stops on the red sleeveless blouse he greatly enjoys seeing on her, plucking it from the hanger and handing it over. She doesn’t protest, tossing the cat-covered white one onto the bed. The crimson graciously matches the darker flowers on the skirt and it’s a shirt she wears with poise, knowing that it flatters every edge and curve it covers.

“Why are you in a rush?” he asks, watching with interest as she promptly does up the buttons and moves to the mirror.

“It’s all meetings and paperwork today. I wanted to pick up my refill before going in.” She nods at her reflection and breezes past him to the bathroom and he follows quietly, leaning against the door frame while she brushes her morning knots into waves. “I won’t have time for it now.”

“You start at one and it’s barely past ten.”

Molly freezes with the brush halfway through a length of hair, staring at herself in the mirror before pulling it the rest of the way down and turning to him.

“My watch said it was ten to twelve.”

“I’m fairly certain your watch said it was two minutes to ten. The hour hand is the small one, you see.”

She pulls open the mirror and places her brush back in the cabinet with a snort. “So I’m all dressed and ready and I have almost two hours to do nothing.”

“I'm sure you'll think of something.”

He pushes away from the door frame, heading back to the sitting room with the Wells book. He's nearly finished _The Sleeper Awakes_ , about twenty pages left, and then—

A hand on his back stills him, one foot in the kitchen and one in the corridor. He turns on the spot and raises a brow as Molly's hand remains connected to him, drifting to rest against his chest when he's facing her.

“Spend some time with me,” she says softly. He can never quite tell what her closed-off smile is saying, but he's learned to navigate around her words, and he closes the space between them to look straight down at her.

“Are you propositioning me, Molly Hooper?”

“You tell me,” she replies, unruffled. “Is my tone suggestive? Are my pupils dilated? Or am I asking you to put the book down and curl up with me for a while?”

“Both options would require me to put the book down.”

An amused grin blooms on Molly's face, and she bites her lip to avoid losing ground by laughing. Or is it because—

She takes control in an instant, stepping back to accommodate for their height difference, grabbing a handful of his shirt, and pulling him down to capture him with a kiss. His train of thought flies off the rails as soon as he feels her move and he tosses the heavy book to the ground without a care, bringing his hands up to cradle her face instead. A rush of heat flows up from his toes when he feels Molly's hands delve into his hair and he opens up to her automatically, seeking out a surface for the leverage to pick her up. His hands move to her hips as she presses herself against the wall and he easily lifts her to his level, her skirt bunching up at her waist while his hips keep her in place. He dips down to nibble at her neck, taking care not to leave a mark this time. Molly would be less than pleased at having to cover up any love bites for her meetings this afternoon.

He'll put them elsewhere.

“Oh, Molly,” he murmurs against her neck. “Do you really want to waste your free time on sex?”

“I think...” Her shaky response is cut off for a moment as Sherlock drags his lips from her shoulder to behind her ear. “I feel like you're the one who wants to waste my free time on sex.”

“Spot on, darling.”

Taking a step back, Sherlock carefully deposits a ruffled Molly back to the floor. She wobbles on her feet for just a second before making a beeline for the bedroom, undoing only the top two buttons and gracelessly pulling her blouse off and tossing it over the open door of the wardrobe. She does the same with her skirt before turning around and rolling her eyes. He's too busy planning on where to bite her flushed skin to notice her grabbing his hand and pulling him into the room, and by the time he's made his decision she's already removed all of his clothes, and the remainder of hers. She drops onto the bed as he steps out of his pile, and he's less annoyed than delighted at her laugh when he has to hop to free his right foot from the tangle before finally joining her.

It's only ever after that he wonders why his switch is so easily flipped. He never considered himself a sexual being and still doesn't, knowing his interest comes from the feelings as opposed to physical attraction, but the _sensations_ , the chemicals and the closeness and the carefreeness of it... It's fantastically liberating in the basest way. _Fun_ is not often a word that Sherlock considers when it comes to their bedroom activities. Peaceful, maybe, languid, since they're more about lovemaking than sex for kicks. It does get fun when they're in a rush or when the cat makes an appearance worrying about his humans when they start making noise.

 _Today_ , he thinks, _is fun._

All of his attention is on the marvellous woman here with him now, her skin always so soft to his touch, her lips always so warm. Her sighs when they separate for air tell him all he needs to know, his fingers drifting across her smooth planes to brush ever so lightly against her most sensitive spots. Sighs turn to gasps when he pulls her leg up to reach the spot on her thigh that makes her shiver, their bodies so close together that every breath pushes the rest of the universe farther and farther away.

It takes every effort to break away to explore her skin with his lips, leaving his marks on her right shoulder, under her left breast, on her right hip, inside her left thigh, back and forth and down until she demands otherwise. It is a request to which he happily obliges, coming back up to meet her lips once more before entering her slowly, watching her face all the time she watches his.

They move together with a chorus of sighs and whispers, the sound of each other's names hanging in the air among encouragements and pleas to nonexistent gods. It's the ultimate kind of pleasure and yet too soft; a silent agreement is followed by him wrapping his arms around her waist and flipping them over so she is above him, her hips moving in a glorious rhythm while his hands roam, seeking to touch every inch of her, stopping on the red and purple circles he placed on her skin minutes earlier. She reaches for his shoulder urging him to sit up, and as she rocks over him he holds her waist and presses his lips against her neck; and then the tidal wave crashes over them both, her hands clinging to his skin as she moans and whimpers in her release, his arms tight around her as he in turn clings to the silence inside his head while the tension is expelled from his body.

They fall back against the bed in a drenched, panting mess of endorphins, oxytocin and dopamine and serotonin washing over their bodies. He holds her close, tracing the ridges on her back and carding a hand through her hair where her head rests against his chest. He knows she can hear his pounding heart under her ear, just as he can feel hers against his hot skin. Comfort overwhelms the desire to be clean so they remain where they are in their cooling pile of limbs.

It's these times, in the quiet high of their bonding, when Sherlock wants to give Molly absolutely everything. To not only be accepted but _wanted_ is the knowledge that makes his heart soar, flying far away from the fear of abandonment that pricks at his insides whenever she walks away. Lately there's been one question that he wants to pose, and he feels it on his tongue again, eager to find air while he's still off guard.

“Molly,” he mumbles.

“Hmm?”

“How do you feel about your name?”

A beat; she's clever enough to know he's avoiding the front door with the question. “Why?”

“I suppose I was wondering whether you might ever consider having mine.”

Molly's smile is as soft as ever when she raises her head to look at him. “You want to marry me?”

“I still consider it a ridiculous institution, binding by law to prove a point and then going back to living the same as before, but I've seen that John is happy to call Mary 'Mrs. Watson' so it can't be as pointless as it seems....”

“Sherlock.”

“No. In response to your question, I do not want to marry you, because making an event out of it is completely ridiculous. However, I think I would enjoy being married to you.” Brushing a strand of hair away from Molly's face, Sherlock lets his hand linger against her cheek in a light caress. It makes it easier to organise his thoughts, somehow, when he's touching her in such a simple embrace. “I don't want your decision to be based on making me happy, because I'm happy just having you. I want it to be something that I can give to you.”

She says nothing, only pulling herself up for a lingering kiss, and then a quick peck. The thought flits through his mind that they have a kiss, and he finds himself letting out a content sigh against her lips.

“I'll think on it,” she promises.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “You may want to shower and get ready for work now.”

“You're making supper tonight.”

“I adore you.”

* * *

 

Of all the things that make Mary laugh, the simplest has to be the way John talks to their daughter. He doesn't see why it's so funny to her; Rosie is a person after all, and even though she's nowhere near able to speak, it's better to actually talk to her than to coo and babble like an idiot.

Maybe the reason Mary finds it as hilarious as she does is because that is a completely Sherlockian view of it. Going by the way he talked with Archie at the wedding, if Sherlock were to ever decide to get his own baby, he would absolutely take communication seriously.

“And don't forget,” Mary says on her way out the door, “war and crime are not—”

“Not appropriate conversation topics for a baby,” John finishes. Rosamund, half asleep in his arms and ready to be put down, lets out a yawn as if she agrees with her mother. “I've heard enough from Sherlock to know I should talk to her about bees.”

“Good boy.” Mary pulls him in for a kiss and then places one on the top of Rosie’s head, smiling the whole time. “I won't be out too late.”

“We'll be fine, Mary. Say hi to Cath from us.”

It took more than a little convincing for Mary to finally accept an invitation for a night out with friends, this being the first time she's taken a real break since having Rosie. They've gone out together – Uncle Sherlock has been more than happy to babysit – and Mary has kicked him out on cases so she could spend time with the baby, but in four months she has never taken a day or a night for herself.

Seeing how much she cares for their daughter, and for him, has had a real effect on how they've moved forward since Christmas. There are times when John tries to remember exactly how there was a possibility he might not forgive Mary for the events of last autumn. He was angry about her lying about her identity, yes, but he understands why she would have wanted to hide and he knows she doesn't want to go back to what she was before. He was furious about her nearly killing his best friend, who now takes every opportunity to joke about being shot and likes to use it as an excuse to ask for the tiniest favours.

_“I got shot, Mary. Do you want to see?”_

_“Months ago, Sherlock, and it's not funny. I nearly killed you.”_

_“And you nearly hit the centre of the coin. Nobody's perfect. Can you pass me that pen now, please?”_

Rosamund makes an annoyed noise against his shoulder and he obeys the command to put her to bed. He wouldn't have minded spending time with her during the day, playing with her feet and blowing raspberries on her stomach, but he supposes quiet time is nice too.

It's odd, he thinks, that he finally was able to properly adjust to his life when the consulting dramatist left to figure out his own. John quickly shuts down his inner amusement at the title – Sherlock was not in a good place when he left and he managed to come back mended, and it's been fantastic to see him still getting better. It's been such a regular thing to think about and when he and Mary are talking about Sherlock, John has to remind himself that he's not talking about a sibling that he loves and cares about. That's how proud he is to have such a friend in Sherlock: the idiot is his brother.

John looks down at Rosamund in her cot and isn't surprised to see her already fast asleep, sprawled out as far as her chub will allow. She isn't a fat baby but he can't help but think of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man from _Ghostbusters_ when he sees her perfectly normal rolls. What's less normal is her habit of sleeping straight through the night after her evening feeding, but he'll never complain about that. She can sleep from seven to five all she likes.

He doesn't see much point in reading to her when she's asleep but he doesn't want to leave just yet, so he takes a seat in the ridiculously comfortable rocking chair in the corner to look around the nursery. Doing the walls of Rosie's room was some of the best fun he'd had in ages, overlaying streaks of tropical blues until it felt like he'd dropped into a rippling aquarium. He'd never put so much effort into something in his life; his final exams were child's play in comparison, but then, he's never thought of himself as creative. Seeing Mary wearing the biggest smile he'd ever seen made it all more than worth it. The ocean theme was entirely her idea and he wasn't sure what the appeal was until after the walls had dried, when he found her with her own set of paints adding cartoon sea life to the walls.

_“Isn’t that that Disney fish?”_

_“Flounder? No. Flounder is yellow.”_

_“No, the other one. Memo.”_

_“Nemo, John. It’s just a clownfish.”_

_“It looks like Nemo.”_

_“That’s because Nemo is a clownfish.”_

The sound of his phone startles John from his thoughts and he quickly digs it out of his pocket and hits the mute button before it can wake Rosie. Not that it’s loud, because he has it on the lowest volume setting, but—

 _Ten o’clock?_ He can’t believe he could have dropped off for three hours in the chair, but in the moment it takes for him to look out at the dark street out the small window, the time on his screen has changed from 22:03 to 22:04. More concerned than annoyed that someone would text him at this time, John opens his notifications and reads a single message, split into four alarmed texts, from Molly Hooper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I'd like to say thank you for reading chapter one and for the comments and kudos on that and on Engines. Secondly, I'm going to thank you for reading this chapter and for, hopefully, sticking around.


	3. Chapter 3

“Molly, breathe. Tell me what happened when you got home.”

All the lamps in the main room of 221B Baker Street are on, but the warm orange light doesn't seem to be making any difference for Molly. She keeps smoothing down her skirt where she sits, wanting to do something other than sit in Sherlock's chair with trembling fingers while John half interrogates her.

He waited for Mary to get home to show her Molly's worrying texts before coming round. It was all apologies for having to run out the minute his wife got in – ten minutes past ten, thank God for her timing – and he drove straight there without a second thought, only that he had to make sure his friend was safe.

“I got in around a quarter to ten and he wasn't home,” Molly explains. The effort she's putting in to compose herself is mad; her anxious fidgeting is easier to see than the moon outside. “I thought maybe he'd gone out on a case but he always texts me if he does, and his phone was on the desk.

“I went downstairs and asked Mrs. Hudson if she'd seen him and she said he came down around five asking if she had tomatoes, and she gave him a tenner so he could pick some up for her when he said he'd be going out to get some.”

“Tomatoes?”

“He was making supper. There was a thawed package of chicken in the sink when I came in, so he didn't come back from getting tomatoes....”

John heaves a sigh before kneeling down, covering Molly's hands with his to make her stop twitching and to soften the implication in his next words.

“Molly, have you noticed Sherlock acting differently recently? Going out for no reason, maybe acting out, or making like he doesn't know you're there?”

Molly shakes her head vigorously and pulls her hands away to rub at her wet eyes. “No, he's been good. Really good. This morning he...”

“What, Molly?”

“He proposed. Sort of. I mean, he asked if I might like to, eventually. I said I'd think about it and he seemed happy about that.”

It wouldn't take a genius detective to know what didn't add up. First off, Molly was right about Sherlock's habits: he definitely would have told her he'd be out for a while, and he would never have left his phone after the fact. He would plausibly have only brought his wallet if he were going to get something as simple as a bag of tomatoes, but there was no reason for it to take five hours. John has seen it firsthand how devoted Sherlock is to Molly, and not only should he be here, but there should also have been a plate in the oven waiting for Molly when she got in.

“He wouldn't run off in the middle of the day,” Molly says, stealing the thought directly from John's head. “He wouldn't run off at all.”

* * *

 

To say his head is pounding would be a lie. The pressure behind his eyes is constant and incredibly tense, a loud soundless noise in his ears making him deaf to everything outside his head. Not that there's much going on inside; it hurts to even think, so he stays still, in whatever position he happens to be in.

It's been like this since he realised he was conscious, but because of it he has no idea how long he's been there – lying, his body recognises – with the pulsating ache in his skull. He can hear his own heart beating in his ears, the gush of blood through veins a steady rhythm that he can't tell is too fast or too slow. Steady is good enough.

The pain moves from the front of his head to the back before it finally dissipates, along with the nothing-noise, leaving him in relative silence. Without opening his eyes he knows it's dark, and a small movement of his fingers tells him he's lying on the ground. Cement, by the feel of it, inside some kind of basement by the damp smell meeting his nose. He must still be on the high of whatever caused his headache because no mental alarms are going off, but he can feel that his sympathetic nervous system is functional, heart rate and breathing increasing in a physical response.

His brain sends a signal to his vocal chords to emit a questioning hum in response to a voice he barely registers in the background. Pulling his focus forward, he listens for the voice to repeat its words.

“Don't open your eyes,” it says, close and calm and distinctively female. “Not until you're sure you'll be able to.”

The words float in a circle like water caught on a wheel, passing through his filters multiple times before actually clicking as advice, but from whom or about what he still can't be sure. He thinks – oh, good, he can think now – he can manage to wake completely, although he'll definitely feel worse than groggy when he does.

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut tighter before opening them slowly and blinking against the darkness in front of him. Something about it is off, and it only takes a few seconds to register that there is no sun on him. He's certain there was before, when he went out to fetch the last of what he'd need for dinner....

The alarm hits him suddenly and he snaps into a sitting position, grey spots dotting his vision from the too-fast movement. He looks around in search of information, something to tell him where the hell his time has gone, where the hell _he_ has gone.

The rectangular room holds all the features of a dingy, unused cellar. The walls are made of bleak brick, likely no insulation between the inner cement and the outer foundation as the tiny window along the wall opposite the inward-opening door appears to sit directly against the grass outside. The floor matches the walls with the dirt and wetness of underground. The ceiling above is only beams, nothing covering the wood and insulation there, the fluff seeming to float in the rafters around a single unlit bulb. Exposed piping connects the floor and the ceiling behind him, and to his side, a human form is sitting on its legs watching him.

The first thing Sherlock sees is that she is young, definitely born in the early nineties. The dim moonlight coming through the little rectangle near the ceiling shows reddish-brown hair and tanned skin, natural, distinctively Mediterranean. _Sicilian, maybe?_ He's still too muddled to properly deduce her identity but he's already seen from her knowledge of the tranquiliser that she's one of his brother's creatures, which should be more than enough for now.

 _A name might be good to know,_ he reminds himself.

“Who are you?” His own voice is thick, as if a cloud of dust has settled in the back of his throat. Which it very well could have done, in this place.

“Your cellmate,” the woman says matter-of-factly. “If you'd like, I'm Sarah Cipriott.”

 _Maltese_ , he corrects himself. Though her accent sounds like two halves from two sides of the Atlantic.

“Sherlock Holmes. Where are we?”

“Couldn't tell you. I've been here since this morning but he dropped you here a few hours ago. How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“It's just that normally one tranquiliser is enough and you had two in your shoulder. You must still have a headache.”

“I'm fine,” Sherlock repeats. The sound of footfalls distracts him from his back-and-forth with Cipriott, who doesn't carry on when he turns away from her.

Thirteen hard thuds, boots on wooden steps, and then a pause. The light above flickers to life at the flip of a switch on the other side of the door. The only thing on the inside of the door is a lock, indicating that it was installed wrong way out. Considering the current situation, likely deliberately. The door opens with barely a squeak, the hinges and the bar on the outside used recently. Possibly from repeated trips to empty the room before depositing a pair of humans inside. A small wooden doorstop is placed in the corner before the door is opened completely and a single person enters the cellar.

Sherlock sees the gun before noticing anything else about the man. All too slowly, his eyes move to the dark hand, up the covered arm, to the olive toned face and near-black eyes looking dispassionately at him.

“Finally awake, are you?” His monotonous voice holds no trace of emotion either, and Sherlock suspects from the tension in the man's stance that he is making the effort to appear aloof.

“Who are you?” Sherlock asks immediately, hoping to get down to business and get out of the dank room as soon as possible. “What do you want?”

“I'll explain our situation in the morning,” the man says, looking between Sherlock and Cipriott to show he's talking to both of them. “Till then, I don't want you to be too uncomfortable.”

The man turns around and pulls the door open completely, reaching out to a set of stairs upon which a pile of bedding appears to be sitting. Two heavy but clearly inexpensive duvets are tossed into the room, followed by two pillows. It sickens Sherlock to realise that he is thankful the pillows didn't hit the dirty floor, as if he's just been presented a wonderful kindness.

“Night,” the man says dryly, picking up the doorstop without a backward glance and letting the door slam shut behind him. Moments later, the lone bulb on the ceiling snaps off, leaving Sherlock and Cipriott alone once again.

* * *

 

She spent her entire night staring at the wall, unable to drop off for even the shortest amount of time. Her phone and his are on the coffee table beside her and neither of them has made a single noise since she lay down on the Watsons' sofa a little past eleven last night.

The light that seeps through the curtains of the window tells her today will be cloudy and cool, no hint of warmth hitting her skin as the sun rises far too quickly. It would be better if it were a dream, so she could wake up and see that he didn't drop off the map like she feared. Seeing his sleeping face, feeling some part of him touching her as if he were a cat making sure his human was still there, that unexciting moment would be infinitely better than this.

More than twelve hours since Sherlock was last seen. Not like when he disappears on a case, when he tells her he'll be gone and that he'll be back. Neither phone has lit up with a call or a message from anyone. If he'd come home, she would have been told. At the very least, he’d have roused Mrs. Hudson to ask to borrow her phone when he saw Molly had taken his with her to their friends’ house for the night.

Molly waits until all three of the Watsons are up and awake before dragging herself off the sofa. Then she picks up her phone and makes the call.

* * *

 

 _Leave it to Sherlock to get me working on my first day off_ , is not what Greg Lestrade wanted to think while he glared at the coffee machine. He didn't want to get up at all, at least not before noon, but his concern for the consulting idiot pulled him out of bed just after six.

It took more time than he'd have liked for him, John, and the unflinchingly eager Philip Anderson to run through all the safe houses and not-so-safe houses on the list. They went their separate ways after turning up empty-handed, and now Greg is back in his office, during his holidays, doing his best to ignore the eyes on the other side of the glass wall.

He pinches the bridge of his nose as the phone rings in his ear. Molly told him when she called that the Holmes boys weren't talking or even on half-friendly terms, but if anyone could find the bastard now, it's the big boss. He doesn't want to make like he's telling Mycroft what to do – the guy reminds him of an owl, complete with three hundred and sixty degree vision – so he leaves the request with Andrea and hangs up as quickly as possible. It'll be faster for Mycroft's end to go through the CCTV footage and set up a team to search for Sherlock properly.

If Annie were in town, she'd already have her own team out looking.

After a minute's hesitation, Greg pulls out his mobile and texts her, asking to phone him when she can.

“So much for summer holidays,” he mutters, dropping his mobile on the desk and sitting back to stare at the ceiling. “Bloody git.”


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock had arrived back at Molly’s flat well after three in the morning on the last Saturday of April, having refused to let his case sit until the next day. He’d argued that the suspect they’d been looking for would be out of the city by the week’s end, and of course, they’d found the man in the middle of packing his bags a little after midnight. If they’d waited, he’d have been lost. The lack of sleep was worth putting the trafficker in a cell, much the same way the man had been selling his acquisitions to perform in cages.

Even Molly’s consistent reminder that he still looked dead tired was not enough to deter Sherlock from today’s event. They’d put it off long enough. She’d be moving into Baker Street within the next couple weeks, and before that, she wanted Sherlock to meet her mother. Her mother, the trained psychiatrist, who would undoubtedly have well-loved DSMs and ICDs on her bookshelf....

It was a visit he’d been dreading since the moment it became a concept.

Over the years Sherlock had begun to accept other people recognising his mental state. But they were friends, people he knew for any length of time, and not his girlfriend’s only living parent, whom he’d never met. No matter how much he worked at it, Sherlock still couldn’t find it in himself to feel anything but ill when someone prodded at the structures of his brain. He’d made a note to ask Molly if that feeling was normal, but it had gotten lost beneath stacks of more important thoughts. The one on top was a sliver of hope that if he didn't intrude on her mother's inner workings, she wouldn't intrude on his.

As it was, he dragged himself out of bed on a sunny Saturday morning, eager after a whole four hours of sleep to get the day over and done with. The coffee brought him up to functional and he allowed himself to fret through the remainder of the morning and through the early afternoon, until half four when he and Molly left for her mother’s home in Brentford. Surviving the evening was the only priority. Then he could go home and sleep halfway through Sunday.

His terror dissipated little by little over the course of the evening, from the enthusiastic hug from Molly's mother, who introduced herself as Katherine, to the meal that he would remember involved more talking than eating. Katherine was just as loquacious as her daughter, feeding prompts like it was nothing, asking question after question and listening intently to his meagre responses. Unlike Molly's natural cheeriness, Katherine's positivity appeared to be almost forced, and it wore him out so effectively that when the trio moved to the living room after supper, he dropped onto the sofa beside Molly and immediately fell asleep on her shoulder.

The clock on the wall had only changed by twenty minutes when Sherlock jerked himself awake, but both Molly and her mother had left the room, the cushion beneath his head indicating that they had wanted to let him sleep a while. He heard their voices in the kitchen and rose to offer whatever help he could provide, which was likely none. Katherine would be washing and Molly would be drying, but apparently it was the polite thing to do.

He froze in the doorway when he heard his own name, his eyes fixed on the two women by the sink with their backs to him.

“He doesn't talk much.”

“Introverts don't tend to. And he's tired. He spent most of the night out on a case.”

“Very interested in his work, that one. I suppose it keeps him occupied?”

“Do you have something to say to me?”

“I'm just wondering if maybe he puts more time into working when he could be spending it with you.”

“That's a crock of shit, Mum.”

He'd never heard Molly curse before and to hear it directed at her own mother raised a red flag in his head.

“Well if you must know,” Katherine sighed, “I'm concerned about his ability to be with you socially. Of course people on the spectrum aren't incapable of love, but—”

The reason behind the forcedness of Katherine’s chirpiness became clear in an instant. She’d been analysing him the entire evening. Diagnosing him. Exposing the expired lie he used to shield himself. He had avoided infringing on her privacy in good faith and she had started learning him from the moment she opened the door.

It felt like a betrayal of trust. He’d come here with Molly to extend his social branches and her own mother had just ripped one away and set it on fire.

* * *

 

It only takes one breath for Sherlock to realise why he woke with his gut churning. The memory of that emotional tear being yanked open feels remarkably similar to the knowledge that he is still lying on the floor of a cellar in the apparent middle of nowhere. Hurt and fear are completely different sensations, he thinks, but then one does often follow the other by various points of reasoning....

His disappointment manages to grow when he opens his eyes to see the bleary stone wall a foot away instead of the sleeping face he's accustomed to. Cocooning himself in a duvet on the floor is miles away from the feeling of another body close to his. He's slept alone when away on cases, yes, but somehow being abducted is not quite the same experience.

It's also one he doubts he will ever live down. He was ambushed in the middle of walking to buy tomatoes, of all things, accosted in a camera-free alleyway serving as a shortcut. The possibility of it being dumb luck that he was in the perfectly wrong place at the perfectly wrong time seemed rather low. He had to have been followed, or maybe watched, for some time. The man had been leaning against a ragged-looking car and had simply pulled the gun out of his pocket and pulled the trigger twice. Sherlock was able to recognise the shape of the weapon, matching it to the one Rhiannon Fletcher had aimed at him at Scotland Yard so many months ago, and the pinpricks he felt before blacking out let him know that he was, in fact, being iced.

He wonders if Cipriott's kidnapping was as embarrassingly benign.

He unrolls himself with a stretch, feeling and hearing his joints popping and cracking. Normally this would be the part when Toby climbs up his stomach meowing for food, but instead what Sherlock is greeted with is the sight of a single cardboard box in the sunlit room. Sitting on her blanket against the wall adjacent to his is his cellmate, looking refreshed and calmly enjoying a bowl of cereal.

“He'll let you shower if you knock,” she says as a good-morning. “The loo's at the top of the stairs if you're hoping to make an escape. And that's breakfast.” She uses her spoon to point at the box in the centre of the room, which Sherlock now sees contains a few cereal boxes, a small jug of milk, and the other bowl and spoon. He's not too proud to pretend he doesn't feel uncomfortable and dirty, so he makes a note to go for the oat clusters after having a wash.

Heavy footsteps sound on the stairs less than a minute after he pounds on the door. Again, the gun is the first thing he notices, and he obediently follows the man's gesture to walk ahead of him up the stairs.

“Bit of a risk making me go in front,” he comments. “I could run any second.”

“You could,” his captor says in a calm, deep voice. “And then I could put two more of these in you and watch you fall like a tree.”

“I always get out before the ransom comes in.” Sherlock stops at the top of the stairs, beside the door that Cipriott claimed to be the bathroom. He doesn't turn, just waits for the man pointing the trank gun at him to release the chain lock on the outside and push the door open.

“Good thing I'm not asking for ransom,” the man says, grabbing Sherlock by the shoulder and shoving him into the small room. “Razors are under the sink. You look like a street rat.”

Sherlock manages to get one quick look at the man before he pulls the door shut and slides the lock back into place, a short list of facts blooming in the half second his eyes were able to take in the details. Ignoring the thought that the man looks remarkably like a thinner version of Molly's favourite television detective – _It starts with L_ , his ignorant mind supplies – he sorts the newly acquired information to suit his current situation.

_Surrey-bred ex-civil servant. Emotionally unstable father of one; harmful more to himself than to others. Divorced or widowed; either way, alone in this house, three bedrooms at least. Prepared, resourceful; state of doors and presence of weapon indicates abductions were planned. Still tries to be kind; need follow-up for reasoning. Could be indecision, could be patience. Said he doesn't want money; what does he want?_

Filing the deductions away for the near future, Sherlock examines the room around him next, cataloguing possible resources for escape. Shower to his right; sink, medicine cabinet, counter, cupboards to his left; toilet directly in front; taller, separate cupboard between the toilet and the shower. Small room, not much to go on. He'll have to dig around.

Towels and products in the cupboard, nothing useful there. Two kinds of soap and shampoo, though, says he knew he was going for one man and one woman. Obviously his own things would be in a bathroom near his bedroom. Two drawers and a cupboard under the sink, the latter empty of previously stored cleaning products. The top drawer holds two hair brushes, two toothbrushes, and a small pack of disposable razors, and the bottom drawer has only an empty travel kit, a litre bag with small plastic bottles inside. Behind the mirror is empty but for a tube of toothpaste and a box of floss. He was hoping to at least find a nail set somewhere to get his hands on the small metal file.

Closing the mirror with a sigh, Sherlock looks at his reflection. He does look like he slept under a bridge, seeing the dirty face and mussed hair and morning scruff. He can't stare at his own eyes for long, quickly looking away to scope the room one last time.

Toilet, shower, shave. Food. Then the wait continues.

* * *

 

He would only remember the worst parts. He would think about the moments of hurt or hate and direct them inward. No amount of healing could change that, she knows.

What does he remember of meeting her mum? Feeling exposed, being broken open like an egg thrown to the floor, hearing the pity in the elder Hooper's voice as she tried to plant the thought in her daughter's mind that he wouldn't be good enough and that he would give up on her. He would remember fleeing to the safety of his own home to swim in his misery alone.

The sound of the door slamming had only made her angrier at her witch of a mother. Molly rarely raised her voice, but knowing that Sherlock had heard the unsympathetic words fuelled her.

“Unbelievable! I bring my boyfriend to meet my mother and she diagnoses him! I don't care how he's wired, Mum, and I'll care even less if any children we might have are wired the same! He's a brilliant man with more heart than anyone, and you can stay the hell out of it if you don't like him. I love him and I know he loves me, and that's the end of it.”

She hadn't even flinched in defending him. Hadn't hesitated before saying she loved him. Hadn't shown any doubt that he loved her. She truly didn't give a damn about his inner circuitry; only saw it as part of him. How many people were there to acknowledge how hard he actually tried? It was endless, as if the tiny mental version of himself was sat in a corner carving away at an odd puzzle piece to get it to fit in the spot of a missing one, putting in so much effort but never quite making it work. The piece would sit in the empty space, but it would be frayed.

Sitting alone at the desk with a bowl of oat clusters, Molly tries to ignore the raised hairs on her arms that go with her feeling of unease. She stares at Sherlock's phone, sitting on the desk beside hers, and pushes back the fear churning in her gut.

What if he did leave of his own volition? He never seemed like the love-and-leave type even with his tendency to be fickle. He loves her, he says so more often than before, and he knows she loves him.... Doesn't he? Did he take her promise to think about his request as a no? Was he regressing in his self-hatred that much?

Molly forces herself to eat, and later she'll push herself to go to work. She has to make it feel like a normal day, or her concern for Sherlock will make her implode.

Her eyes squeeze shut at the sound of Toby's questioning meow, knowing that if Sherlock doesn't show up today, she'll be in for an agonising lack of sleep. She has never seen Toby so distressed as when Sherlock leaves for a period of time. If he doesn't see his human leave with a travel bag, Toby will do nothing but whine and complain. It was bad enough when Sherlock went away for four weeks; not knowing where he is now will make it hurt even more.

She seriously wonders sometimes if they're co-dependent, her and Sherlock. It doesn't feel unhealthy to be with him, but then she supposes she might not notice. She knows she doesn't need to be the one to tell him that he is loved, but does he understand the same way? Does he believe that the love that is delivered to him comes only from Molly, or does he know just how many people care about him?

Molly finds herself very suddenly fed up with all the questions running through her mind, and, throwing up a mental wall against them, she vows to get through her day like any other, even if she has to drag herself onward.

“Keep it together, Molls,” she whispers to herself, hands balling into fists. “It’s not even been a day.”

Every cry from Toby sends a blunt pain through her chest.


	5. Chapter 5

He can’t believe his ears. The words coming out of the man’s mouth sound so unbelievably ridiculous that he has to look to his cellmate to make sure he’s not hallucinating. When their eyes meet he sees the look of complete bafflement on her face that tells him that she is on the same blank page as he is.

“You want us to _bring_ someone to you?” It sounds just as strange in Cipriott’s voice. “How in the world are we supposed to do that when you’ve got us stuffed in here?”

“There’s also the matter of everybody and their brother owning a phone these days,” Sherlock puts in. He can still feel the crease in his forehead from when his brow knitted in confusion. “It would have been quite a lot less effort to ring your one person instead of planning two abductions.”

“I don’t much like listening to you.” The man is leaning against the propped open door with his arms crossed, gun in hand yet again, as if it were physically attached. “You know full well that mobile numbers aren’t in the phone book. You wouldn’t find me under ‘Rucastle’ and the person I want isn’t attached to land either.”

“So what’s the point of plucking us off the street?” Cipriott asks. “Why burden yourself with an intermediary? Why two? Why us?”

The man pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “If you two would stop interrupting me with stupid questions and let me finish what I was _saying_...” He lets the sentence hang into silence before carrying on. “You were chosen with great care. You won’t be going anywhere, because with you here, _she_ will come to _me_. Understand?”

“Almost,” Cipriott replies authoritatively. “I still don’t know how Sherlock Holmes and I are both connected to this third party.”

“I do.”

Two pairs of eyes turn toward Sherlock instantly. The obvious fact had been hiding behind frosted glass, blurred and unidentifiable. But the second he heard the word _she_ , it became abundantly clear whom their captor sought.

Cipriott works under Mycroft, but not as some ordinary secretary. Her demeanour continually suggested something active, but he couldn’t be bothered to place it before. _Stupid decision,_ he chides himself. It would have been obvious if he’d just looked.

A runner. One who’d actively experienced this kind of thing before: threatening situations, capture. Not just delivering files, then. Delivering people. A job that couldn’t always be handled alone. One would be assigned a partner, an occasional, another agent who was authorised to set up safe houses and transfer occupants. An agent who would also have been authorised to deliver sensitive information to whichever hands were waiting for it.

* * *

 

“CCTV footage shows him entering the lane but not coming out. There was a car, though. Ugly old Buick, light brown. Left about ten minutes after Sherlock was supposed to show up on the other side.”

“Did he get in?”

“There was only one person in the car; we’re trying to ID them now. Tell you what, if Sherlock did get knocked out and stuffed in a boot, whoever did it picked a shitty camera to hide under.”

“Keeps sounding more and more likely, doesn’t it?” John rubs at his forehead like he’s trying to pull out an idea. “Thanks, Greg. Call me if there’s anything new.”

“Will do.”

John ends the call and lets his phone drop to the table. Through the kitchen doorway, he can see Mary leaning against a counter with a mug of tea, looking on with concern.

“Nothing?” she says.

“Might as well be.”

“They’ll find him, John. They know what they’re doing.”

“Do they, though? Sherlock called them monkeys more than once and it’s not like he’d have been abducted by an idiot.”

“Only an idiot would try.”

* * *

 

“We’ve been kidnapped by an idiot.”

“Of course we haven’t.”

“A complete and utter idiot.”

“If he’s an idiot then he’s genius-level stupid.” Cipriott’s calmness is beginning to irritate Sherlock, who can’t stop pacing the small room while his cellmate sits against the wall on top of her blanket like a teenager relaxing in her bedroom.

“I’ve seen genius-level stupid,” he argues. “Rucastle’s not it.”

“No, because he’s _not_ stupid. So far he’s gotten away with icing a combat-trained government operative and a world-renowned detective. He’s pulled out stops to make sure we can’t up and run. He’s got tranks instead of bullets to keep our value at maximum. Just because we don’t know what he’s thinking doesn’t mean he’s a moron.”

“Fine. He’s a clever idiot.”

“Seriously?”

“He didn’t even tell us why he wants Fletcher! Probably doesn’t know she’s on the other side of the Atlantic. For all it’s worth we could be stuck in here for the better part of a month waiting for her to answer her phone.”

“Oh, come on. Annie’s more reliable than that.”

“You, you too! Why do you call her that?”

Cipriott raises a brow at the finger pointing at her. “I thought you might be more concerned with how she’s to know that she’s the one he wants.”

“That part’s obvious,” Sherlock says, waving the thought away. Rucastle would get the message out somehow. He knows the police will catch up to him. Sherlock and Cipriott have another connection in Mycroft, whom Rucastle must know about, and who will undoubtedly know what the man wants. Contact will be made with Fletcher who will more than likely find her way to the country house by herself. Hopefully with a team.

* * *

 

“To Annie!” Lestrade called, holding up his glass. “She ignored every order but she got more shit done than the entire team put together. A successful first case, eh, Sherlock?”

“I suppose I can drink to that,” he said, tipping his own glass before putting a dent in the pint. “Don’t ever do that again,” he adds in Fletcher’s direction.

Across the table, the runner gave a mock salute, grinning from ear to ear. The butterfly bandages hidden on her right temple beneath her fringe were doubtless already spotted with red, but she’d refused to be taken to a hospital for stitches. _It was just a kick_ , she’d argued. _Just clean it and tape it._

“I still can’t believe you actually came for drinks.” Sally Donovan sat between Lestrade and Fletcher clutching her own pint. “Normally you’re a miserable twat who’d rather watch an autopsy than go to the pub. No offense, Molly.”

“None taken,” Molly replied with a laugh, between Sherlock and Lestrade.

“To be fair,” John said from Sherlock’s other side, “he’s still a miserable twat.”

“I’m not miserable!”

“He’s not a twat either,” Mary scolded. Her place was between John and Fletcher, and like the runner, the drink she held was a virgin daiquiri. Rosamund was spending the evening with the sitter, a frighteningly qualified Welshwoman appointed by Mycroft to relieve some of the stress from the Watsons’ first few weeks as parents. Mary had designated herself the driver for one half of the table while Fletcher had claimed the other half.

“I’m glad you’re not miserable,” Molly said, ruffling Sherlock’s hair. He smiled back at her, loving that she was confident enough to do such a thing in public. He avoided displays of affection because he knew how quickly the press would jump on it and take every stab at Molly that they could; she didn’t seem to mind one bit.

“So, I didn’t get to hear the story,” Mary said. “There was something about a gang and a warehouse?”

“This one,” John explained, pointing an accusatory finger at Fletcher, “said she had the ground force covered. This one–” he turned to point at Sherlock– “thought she’d be bringing in a team. And those two–” he points finally to Lestrade and Donovan– “knew the whole time she was bonkers and let her go in with just her tranquilisers and combat armour. Thirteen unconscious thugs later, she comes out with blood pouring out her face and gives the all clear. The police go in, cuff everyone, and pack up a half dozen boxes full of every drug I can name off the top of my head.”

“I still don’t see why you’re all so up in arms about it,” Fletcher argued with a shrug. “I said I’d handle it and I did.”

“You did,” Sherlock said. “And you handled it remarkably."

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Just drink,” Lestrade sighed. “It was supposed to be a toast.”

* * *

 

Mycroft taps his foot rhythmically against the floor, watching the screen of the laptop in front of him as the program attempts to find the phone. His office is too warm, the sun too bright through the curtains, and pushing his sleeves up to his elbows hasn’t done much good. He leans against his interlaced hands, willing the tracker to work faster. Each operative’s phone is equipped with a tracking beacon so the owner can be found even in an area with no reception. Wherever in the city she happens to be at the present time, he’ll know within minutes. Toronto’s population is approximately a third of London’s, so it should take less time to pinpoint the mobile’s location, but so far nothing has come up.

Most often, he only raises the alarm when Sherlock disappears for a few hours. This time he allowed himself to wait. The police wanted to deal with it themselves, so he allowed it. One of his top agents tendered her resignation to work with his brother, and he allowed it. He’s made far too many allowances for Sherlock lately. His nose had healed with no appearance of having been broken at all, and he had stayed well out of Sherlock’s orbit, but somehow still he found himself catering to his little brother.

First he would find Fletcher. Then she would find Sherlock.

The computer beeps once, presenting an error message. _Not in range._ Scowling, Mycroft scrolls outward from the box containing the city of Toronto to show the entire southern half of the province and the northernmost states below it. Then he sets the tracker to search again and waits.

After five minutes the computer pings again, a green circle appearing on the eastern coast of a large body of water. He cross-references the area against local network towers, noting that the tracker is secluded enough that the phone will have no reception.

Mycroft lifts the receiver of the phone on his desk and dials his assistant in her upper floor office.

“Have a live runner prepped to fly west as soon as possible. I’m arranging the file now. Top priority.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for waiting for the update and, as usual, for reading. Comments and kudos are always appreciated and I thank you for those too.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock told her once that she needed to work on her poker face. Well, not once. And not about her poker face. On multiple occasions he made it clear that she was emotionally transparent, that her stress or anger or anxiety were poorly hidden behind a smile that she put on to try to quash the negative passions. He wasn’t wrong, and Molly was glad whenever he mentioned it. Having whatever nasty mood she was in pulled out into the open made it easier for her to feel better, and he only ever brought it up when they were alone, talking people out of the room if need be. It was something she didn’t expect to appreciate, being analysed, but Sherlock tried so hard to be good to her and she loved him for it.

_Stop thinking in past tense!_

Three days in and she’s already warped. She should be latching onto every piece of information that she gets, but for some reason apathy keeps trying to take control. She’ll stop to worry about Sherlock and her thoughts will come out all wrong, as if she’s beginning to believe that he truly did up and leave, cutting himself off from everyone to get away from... something. It’s hitting that wall that brings her back to reality, where her little voice snaps at her to stop being so pessimistic.

That voice of reason doesn’t stop her all the time, though. At night, Molly’s thoughts will slide into negativity with such ease that it scares her. She thinks of reasons why Sherlock would leave her and she’ll fall asleep with some darker version of herself reminding her that she was far too simple, too dull, too boring to keep Sherlock’s interest for long.

When she wakes up, she wonders if this is how he wakes up every day. Feeling unworthy. She’s tried to understand him the way he’s learning to understand her, but the sadness that sticks to him is impossible to completely comprehend. All Molly knows now is that in her months of trying to cure it, she’s let it latch onto her soul too. The only person she wants to talk to is up in the air, and everyone else is starting to see that something is wrong.

* * *

 

John slams his phone down on the table with enough force to make the coffee in his mug ripple. He rubs at his tired eyes for something to do with his hands, the coolness of his wedding band doing little to calm the impatience that’s been building since Wednesday morning. If Sherlock ran away, there’d be no finding him now. If he was taken – which is what everybody is morbidly hoping to be the case – something useful should have turned up by now. So far everything has been useless. Including Rhiannon Fletcher, who is apparently hiding out in the middle of Canadian fucking nowhere.

_If that bastard is with her..._

The papers have already jumped on it. The mysterious absences of Sherlock Holmes and his assistant have been fuel for the gossipy writers, especially the ones convinced that the two are having an affair. It disgusted him before, seeing the way those people were talking about Sherlock, knowing it wouldn’t happen in a million years. He still looks at her like there’s a snail sitting on her cheek and he’s not sure how to tell her it’s repulsive. In all the times John has seen them together, he’s never seen them within arm’s length of each other. But there they are, the stories about Sherlock’s “other girlfriend”, flooding the stands yet again.

He stands up to pace, a habit he absorbed from Sherlock in his fouler moods. It does nothing to help, only serving to make him more agitated.

They tracked the car to its owner, who’d reported it stolen on Sunday and had been completely stunned to see the thing parked in front of his house when he opened the door to Lestrade on Thursday morning. The guy passed the polygraph without a hitch, alibi checking out no problem, and absolutely nothing was found inside the car. Not even a fingerprint belonging to either the thief or the owner could be pulled off any surface. The entire thing had been wiped clean when it was dropped off. Whoever this person is, he’s smart and he knows it. He’s winning.

John feels like he’s about to explode, or implode, or maybe just collapse. The feeling in his gut is becoming too familiar, too much like the grief he used to feel standing at Sherlock’s grave. Like the fear he felt... well, all the time he couldn't see Sherlock, to be honest. He's been through enough with his friend to know that Sherlock can be completely unpredictable in his temperaments, and there would always be an opportunity for crisis.

He's angry. He's furious. At Sherlock, for doing whatever it is he's done this time. At the police and at Mycroft for being so slow. At Molly for being calm instead of afraid. At Fletcher for not answering the phone. At Mary for the sound of her feet coming down the stairs–

“This wouldn't be happening if I hadn't listened to you,” he snaps, causing her to stop with one foot still on the bottom step. “None of this.”

“What do you mean?” There's an emptiness to her tone, a lack of surprise or confusion, that says she knows exactly what he's accusing her of even though he doesn’t.

“If you'd just let it be, he would have stayed away! We wouldn't be sitting on our arses waiting for the big people to keep doing nothing if you'd just left it alone.”

“You wouldn't have had your best man,” Mary says calmly, coming to stand a few feet from where John has planted himself in the middle of the living room. “Rosie wouldn't have her godfather.”

“I wouldn't have had to watch him bleeding out after getting shot! I could have lived the rest of my life without knowing about you!”

Already, John feels himself cooling off. The anger fades quickly back into worry before taking a complete nosedive and dropping right to the depressive cocktail that comes with having a past with Sherlock Holmes. While Mary stands by patiently, John drags himself back to the sofa and collapses onto it, dropping his face into his hands and taking an unsteady breath. Before he knows it he's sobbing, years of bottled up emotion falling out in choking gasps and free-flowing saltwater. The cushion dips beside him and he leans into Mary when she puts an arm around him, the other cradling his head like a child's.

“He can't do this again.” The voice doesn't even sound like his own, but he knows it can't belong to anyone else. “I can't mourn him again.”

“Shh, John. You won't have to.” She places a kiss on his hair, rocking lightly back and forth. Mothering him, while their daughter drifts off to sleep in her cot upstairs.

“I can't lose him again.”

“You won't.”

* * *

 

“I may have a plan.”

“Does this plan involve pissing him off again? Because last time he was past shooting you.”

Sherlock stops in his umpteenth lap of the small room to shoot an annoyed glare at Cipriott. The bruise on his cheek below his left eye has started to fade into an ugly yellow blotch, hints of purple still scattered around the asymmetrical oval.

_“No offense, but your reasoning seems without purpose.”_

_“Well, maybe when you see a face you love more than anything every day and then have it taken away, you might understand the purpose.”_

_“And when you have to look at a face you hate every day and it won't go away, you'll see why I don't find you remarkable.”_

He didn't see the swing coming at all, but at least Rucastle had finally given them some hint of a motive. From what Sherlock and Cipriott could piece together from his scant monologue, Rucastle and his daughter were supposed to have been relocated for some classified reason, and the girl had been taken first. No one had come for him. The consensus was that their protection had something to do with the meaningful absence of the girl’s mother in Rucastle’s narrative.

That was as much as they could get. The man tends to keep silent most of the time, unless he’s telling the pair of them to stand up and face the wall while he sets out their food, or coming down to ask what they want when one of them knocks, or to tell Sherlock to shut the hell up when he begins shouting at the ceiling out of boredom.

One thing is a hundred percent clear to Sherlock: Rucastle does not like him in the slightest. All Cipriott muttered when he voiced the thought upon his return from the bathroom the second morning was that it didn’t help to keep pushing Rucastle’s buttons.

“The plan may provide one or both of us the opportunity to escape.”

Cipriott raises a brow at the continuous use of the indeterminate. Her patience has dwindled significantly over their three days together – nearer four, if he's to count his mostly unconscious Monday evening and this morning. At least they're being treated more or less as humans. Rucastle even washed their clothes yesterday, separately, during each of their morning showers.

“What makes you think this isn't the safest place for us to be right now?”

“I could start with the fact that we're in a mad man's _cellar_.”

“In the _country_. Even if one of us gets out, how the hell would we know which way to go?”

Sherlock purses his lips at the woman's cynicism. Or perhaps it's comfort. She hasn't shown any signs of stress all week, seeming perfectly content to wait out the storm.

“Why don't you want to leave?”

“I want the whole story. Why he dragged us here, what he plans to do to Annie, how he intends to get her here at all...”

“Someone will get her attention and bring her back to London. You know how many people and resources she'll have. If it goes the way he wants–”

Rucastle's heavy footsteps on the stairs stop him mid-thought as he turns toward the door. When he glances back to Cipriott he sees she's standing up, facing the wall as their captor has ordered time and again. Heaving a sigh, Sherlock mimics her position, placing his palms at shoulder height against the cold concrete. Then he listens.

A pause at the bottom step. The snap of the bar releasing the latch. The near silent passing of air as the door is pushed open. The deliberate click of the safety being released on that damn gun. He can't tell if it's housing tranks or bullets when he's not looking at it, but neither one attracts him.

_“They're custom designed for icing,” Fletcher explained as she deftly disassembled the gun. “Fits a cartridge of bullets, but the inner mechanism makes them pretty harmless. You'd still bleed, but it’d be shallow enough that you wouldn't wet your entire nail before you felt it.”_

_Sherlock held his hand out for the pieces and Fletcher passed them over. He examined the parts separately, turning them this way and that to observe from every angle._

_“It's mostly spring and piston so the tranks stay intact,” the runner continued. “They'd be useless wet chunks of metal and glass if they shot like regular bullets.”_

_“Quiet, then.”_

_“Oh yeah. And fast.”_

The sound of Rucastle's boots approaches behind them. Normally he stays by the door to deposit or retrieve, and neither Sherlock nor Cipriott have knocked for the loo. Without pausing, Rucastle grabs a handful of Sherlock's shirt, tugging him back from the wall and spinning him to face the door. Sherlock doesn't need to feel the gun on his back to know it's pointed at him.

“Up,” Rucastle commands.

Sherlock obeys silently, keeping his hands visible to the man behind him. The last time he angered Rucastle he received a well-struck punch in the face; the time before that, he watched the gun come up and woke up on the floor, barely turning over before a wave of nausea had him begging for a bucket. He'd much rather be bludgeoned than shot again.

He stops beside the door at the top of the stairs as always, and is startled to feel Rucastle's hand push him farther into the house. At the end of the short corridor he pauses to take in the open main level, quickly noting the living room to the right and the attached kitchen and dining room straight ahead. Patio door on the left, front door on the right... Not enough lead to make a break, and they're probably both locked anyway.

He's pushed forward to the kitchen and seated at one of six chairs around a clean glass table. A laptop sits in the middle of the table at ninety degrees, the screen invisible. A mobile phone is placed in front of him.

“Your girl is taking too long,” Rucastle says, the forced calm in his voice threatening to crack. “You've got one phone call. I'll be listening.”

* * *

 

It has become something of a morning ritual for Mycroft to enter his office and request a cup of tea before diving into his inbox. The past few days have had him postponing the emails and incoming files in favour of resetting the tracker that locates Fletcher’s mobile. Yesterday morning it was in the same exact place as the day before, but the boy sent to fetch her hadn’t given an affirmative for contact. It couldn’t be that hard to navigate the area. Perhaps he should consider demoting this one.

He sits back in his chair while he waits, patiently sipping his tea in silence. The teacup is at his lips when the computer delivers the error message. Mycroft stares at the screen, blinking, before closing the notice. He has the entire province of Ontario on the page. The phone isn’t there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading, and for any comments and kudos of which you deem me worthy. You don't know how much I appreciate you sticking around.


	7. Chapter 7

John scrutinises the caller ID on the screen of his ringing mobile, the light chimes of his newly chosen ringtone making Rosamund coo happily from her spot on the sofa beside him. He turns to grin at her for a moment, rubbing her belly with his free hand like he would a puppy’s, making her smile even bigger.

“What’s that about, eh, Rosie?” he mumbles, glancing back to his phone. “Should I answer it?”

His machine is full of ignored messages from nosy reporters – he and Molly have compared numbers and nearly every incoming call on his phone has a match on hers – and he knows that if he doesn’t answer in the next few seconds, he won’t be able to phone back.

 _Private caller._ No name, no number. Maybe...

He taps the green button, turning the call to loudspeaker. His greeting is a blunt, “Who’s this?”

“I can’t say I expected you to sound happy but that was positively miserable.”

“Sherlock!” His exclamation is loud enough that it’s followed by the sound of running feet as Mary barrels into the room, stopping wide-eyed in the doorway before coming to kneel in front of Rosie. Rosie in turn lets out a screech at the sound of her uncle’s voice, grinning widely and looking around for the man, unable to roll off her back but wiggling her torso as much as she can manage.

“Are you safe?” Mary asks firmly.

“Where the hell are you?” John snaps at the same time. “We’ve been sitting on our hands waiting for some contact from you or your bloody Blond Widow! Molly’s worked two doubles in a row because she doesn’t want to be at Baker Street.”

“What? Why not?”

John opens his mouth to give a nasty response, but closes it again when Mary gives him a stern look.

“I’m quite safe, enjoying the view from underground. Cellar floors make for very comfortable sleeping, much better than being in a bed with Molly and her cat.” Sherlock’s sarcasm practically oozes out of the phone. At least he’s confirming that he didn’t run off of his own free will. “Did you say you haven’t been able to get in touch with Fletcher?”

“She’s off the map. Mycroft even texted me this morning, saying she’s not at her family’s cottage now either.”

“She’s on her way to London, then.”

“What good will she be, if the police and the British Government can’t help?”

“He wants her,” Mary says. When John raises a brow at her she rolls her eyes and adds, “Not Sherlock; the person who has him. And of course it’s a he, we ladies are more efficient than this. I’d be willing to bet that she’ll know where to look when she learns that someone’s taken Sherlock to get her attention.”

“Magnificent,” Sherlock compliments.

“Get married,” John mutters. “Is it just you, then? No offense but if you’re Fletcher’s only friend I’d feel sorry for her.”

“As it happens, there is one more person. I can’t say anything else, but you _need_ to get Fletcher.”

“How are we supposed to know who to send her to?”

“Like Mary said: she’ll know.”

“Okay. Fletcher. Anything else the abductee can share? It doesn’t sound like you’re getting out of there anytime soon; a message for your worrying girlfriend might be appreciated.”

“Just skip that. Really, you shouldn’t underestimate me. I’m currently working on a daring escape. Shouldn’t take all that long either. Like I’ve said: everyone makes mistakes.”

The line disconnects abruptly, leaving John and Mary to sit in silence. The sound of Rosamund’s agitated whine snaps the pair of them back to the present, and while John looks confusedly at the phone still in his hand, Mary is digging through one of the coffee table’s drawers, pulling out a pen and notepad and furiously scribbling something down.

 _What are you...?_ “What’s that?”

“What did he say? His exact words when you mentioned Molly at the end, what did he say?”

“Skip it?”

“Exactly.” She finishes writing, turning the paper to show him the last words Sherlock spoke. She’s underlined what look like random words, but after a moment he sees the pattern. “First word, then every third.”

 _Really_  
_Underestimate_  
_Currently_  
_A_  
_Shouldn’t_  
_That_  
_Like  
E_ _veryone_

“You two communicate this way, do you?” John says, looking distrustfully at the paper.

“Mostly we vocalise. But I think he just told us something very important.”

John watches in disbelief as Mary gets up to fish through the opposite drawer, pulling out the massive phone book that neither of them has ever bothered to open. She flips through the White Pages, skimming through the names. With a satisfied smile, she turns the book toward him and points to a name with dozens upon dozens of entries.

“R-U-C-A-S-T-L-E,” Mary spells, nodding to the paper still in John’s hand. “He gave us a name!”

“If that is what he gave us, it’s one out of hundreds.”

“Better than one out of millions.”

He looks to Mary then, seeing the sureness plain on her face, the steadfast will to be right about this, to be a step ahead of where they were before. And Rosamund, happily lying on her back and smiling at the words she doesn’t understand. Although he hates to move her when he knows she’s comfortable, he gets up off the sofa and picks her up, hugging her tightly with one arm and holding his hand out to help Mary up from her seat on the carpet.

She’s right, after all. Their odds are ten thousand times better than five minutes ago.

* * *

 

It should make her angry, seeing the lies they’re spreading. She should be phoning Mycroft, asking for all of their fingers to feed to Toby, demanding they all write redactions and apologise. Instead, all Molly can do is sit on the floor and read.

They’re mesmerising, in a way. The preposterous lengths these people will go to to drag their chosen few through the mud every week. Determined to connect coincidences and make big things of little events. Even the case they took in Germany: brought up as if it was some kind of secret romantic getaway when the reality was that Molly had been the one to convince Sherlock to go, and to take Rhiannon with him instead of pestering John. It was all ridiculous, knowing that they only liked each other for the convenience they respectfully represented.

She’s more upset at herself for not being able to care about the lies than she is at the journalists selling them. It gives her some satisfaction to throw each article in the fire after she finishes – unless of course she finds some overused description of herself in the paragraphs, in which case she tosses it without finishing it. “Mousy Molly”, “Bart’s beauty”, “petite pathologist”, the alliteration that tries to pass off as charm only serves to drive her up the wall. It was inevitable, she supposes, that she would be reduced to her appearance instead of acknowledged for her work. She can be properly annoyed about it later. For now, she just feels blank.

In the middle of flipping to an article declaring her _pregnant and abandoned_ – their only “proof” being a photograph of her in one of her loose dresses – Molly pauses to answer the phone quietly vibrating on the floor beside her.

“Hello?”

“Oh! I, um, wasn’t expecting you to answer.”

“Tom?” When she told him not to phone, flinging the ring at him on her way out, she didn’t expect him to respect the command as effectively as he did. This is the first time he’s actually phoned since the mostly one-sided fight that ended their engagement so promptly nearly a year ago.

_“You really must be an idiot if you think I’m going to marry someone who hates the idea of my work! In fact you should have saved us both the time and trouble and made it clear at the start that you think it’s disgusting....”_

“Yeah, er, I know I’m probably the last person you want to talk to, but...”

“What is it?” Molly mentally pats herself on the back for sounding patient instead of exasperated or flat out pissed off that her ex is calling her while her boyfriend isn’t there to say anything.

“I just wanted to check up, see if you’re okay. They’re talking about Sherlock on the news now and it’s... ugly.”

“I’m fine, Tom. I’ve been sort of avoiding the news. I’d rather not hear anything from a stranger telling the entire country. But thank you.”

“You’re welcome?” She almost wants to grind her teeth at the inflection that shows just how surprised he is that she’s what, not screaming her head off and hanging up? Every little thing that annoyed Molly about Tom near the end comes creeping back, filling up the spaces where her apathy sat moments before. The stupid conspiracy theories, the way he scraped his teeth against his fork when he ate...

“Have they been bothering you much?”

“Who?”

“Press.”

“Oh. No.” It’s a blatant lie, but she wants to end the call as soon as possible. In truth, her phone has gone off more times this week than in the past month with journalists and reporters from all over trying to squeeze a quote out of her. Meena has texted her every morning reminding her not to answer her phone, but she keeps doing it out of habit. Or maybe it’s hope that the next number will be Sherlock.

“Okay, well... Like I said, I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“As okay as I could possibly be right now.”

“Right. Bye then, I suppose. Phone if you need anything.”

“Bye.”

She ends the call and nearly throws her phone to the floor before bringing her hands up to brush back her hair, a tic that she didn’t realise she adopted from the consulting detective until he pointed it out to her. It does relax her somewhat, just enough that she can breathe properly. Another version of her would be gasping, sucking in air in a panic as she came to fully comprehend her situation. This Molly, the Molly who’s seen and done enough for two lifetimes, calms herself before she can lose the only control she has left.

She tosses the paper containing the article about her nonexistent baby into the fire and hauls herself off the floor. The popping of her stiffened joints feels like cool water on a hot day and she sighs contentedly. Picking up her phone and making sure she didn’t hurt it in her force, Molly places it on the desk next to Sherlock’s charging mobile.

And then it rings again.

“Not a chance,” she mutters, but her curiosity gets the better of her and she looks at the screen anyway. She doesn’t hesitate to pick it up when she sees the number. “Mycroft?”

“Molly. How’s the fire?”

“Still going,” Molly answers honestly, looking at the orange flames in the fireplace and the crumbling paper and blue and green licks from the burning ink. She’s glad for the light breeze coming through the windows, keeping the flat cool. Mycroft’s omniscience doesn’t bother her much anymore, probably to his disappointment. “Has something happened?”

“I wanted to inform you that Rhiannon Fletcher’s car has been signed out of parking and she is with it. She’ll be coming to me first, but I will be sending her to Detective Inspector Lestrade after briefing, and he will likely direct her to you or to John.”

 _Okay, she saw the news, then._ “What can she do that hasn’t already been done?”

“That remains to be seen. She can be rather unpredictable in knowledge and action, but most likely the only help she can provide is to retrieve Sherlock once we ascertain his whereabouts.”

“You wouldn’t just send her somewhere dangerous alone, though. And, I mean, she doesn’t work for you anymore, so you can’t really make her do anything.”

“Can’t I?”

There it is. Mycroft’s all-seeing eye doesn’t scare Molly, but his voice can make her shiver. The blunt certainty, the coldness that comes out like radio waves from a tower, telling everybody that he is not afraid to exercise his power over people. It almost makes her sick thinking of how he influences Rhiannon: he’s a virus that rewrites the program in her as he sees fit. She can’t help but wonder how much of that influence was built up from controlling the people closest to him. Controlling his own brother... “You’ll be seeing her soon, Miss Hooper. Good morning.”

Molly scowls at her phone after hearing the old-fashioned click of being hung up on. _Funny_ , she thinks, realising she’s offended by something she nearly did to someone else minutes earlier. Deciding that she’s had enough for now, she takes the advice she’s been given and switches her mobile completely off before laying it beside Sherlock’s with finality.

 _I guess I’ll just..._ She checks the time, willing the day forward so she can get up and go to work without feeling strange about it. There’s just nothing to occupy her here. Well, there is, of course there is. There’s telly and books and internet, always more articles to read and throw into the fire, and she’s been leaving Toby all by himself these past few days....

Every time she stops for anything, she realises how much she does not want to stay in the silent flat. It was different when it was her own place, the space she had to herself, but this, this is Sherlock’s space, and he should be occupying it.

She barely brought anything with her in the move: kitchenware, bedding, linens, clothes, books, but no furniture, no decorations of her own. Each room was full enough. Apart from Toby’s presence and a few framed photographs scattered about the main room and the bedroom, there is very little of herself here. So why should she be here when he’s not?

Oh, he would be so terrified to hear her think like this. He was the one who asked her, offering any changes that would allow her to bring as much to the flat as she needed. He was also the one who suggested she put her extra items into storage instead of selling them. He wanted all of her to be there, and she just... didn’t. She didn’t want to overwhelm him in any way. She didn’t want to come into it like she wasn’t aware that they might implode.

Why does that seem more likely these days? Did she really absorb that much of his fear?

“I’ve got to get out of here,” she decides.

In minutes she’s dressed and washed and heading down the stairs feeling hopeful that she’ll have a decent distraction today. There’s bound to be something worth doing in the lab before her shift. Maybe some paperwork to fix in the office. If not, she always keeps a book in her bag and a deck of playing cards in the back of her desk, if worse comes to worst she can—

“Oh!”

Molly jumps back from the door, opening a space for John to stagger inside instead of tripping over her. If she’d been paying attention to anything she would have heard him on the other side. She apologises automatically and John waves it off with half a laugh.

“It’s not like it hasn’t happened before,” he says. “At least you stopped. Sherlock always just kept going. Anyway, we’re not here for a visit; we’re going to talk to Mycroft and you should come with us.”

“What for?” Molly asks warily, following John outside and closing the door behind them.

“Mary thinks we might have the name of the bloke who snatched Sherlock.” Just outside the car, he stops and turns to her. “She’ll be able to explain it better than me. I honestly don’t really know what’s happening.”

 _At least someone’s being straight about it for once_ , Molly’s little voice mutters as she takes the spot beside Rosie’s car seat. She can’t help but smile at the little girl’s dimples as she looks at the big blue eyes. _And at least I’ve got good-looking company for the ride._

* * *

 

It happened fast enough that he didn’t have time to react. The phone hitting the wall, the chair being pushed aside, his body thrown off kilter like he weighed less than a burlap sack. It had taken him the length of the phone call to split Rucastle’s name into a barely recognisable code and it had taken less than a second for him to be found out. No chance to tell John he’d be all right. No time to ask Mary if she heard him. No opportunity to go back and give a message for Molly.

He doesn’t need stimulants in his system to be able to move. The time it takes to get off the floor and dive out of the room is less than the seconds it takes for Rucastle to get around the toppled chair and grab him. The moment to look to his left, to run for the front door, to unlock it and open it and get to the road, that won’t be enough to his advantage. Three steps out of the kitchen Sherlock slides to a stop and turns, his closed right hand coming around at just the right angle to hit the solar plexus; with his own force and Rucastle’s it should knock out enough air that—

The thought is cut off as his fist connects hard and Rucastle’s knees hit the floor, his arms around his middle as he coughs and gasps for air. Sherlock sets off toward the door, hands on the knob before the rest of him practically slams into it. His fingers play at the deadbolt just below eye level, releasing the inner lock and pulling the bolt open, tugging on the door with so much zeal that he stumbles when it flies open.

Ears ringing and eyes burning in the unfiltered sunlight, Sherlock jumps the steps to level ground and takes off at a blind sprint, his feet running over gravel and grass in as straight a line as he can manage. All he wants is to get far enough away that he can hide and orientate. He didn’t have a goal when he started running and he’s straining to come up with one now that he’s moving. Against his better judgement he looks over his shoulder, seeing Rucastle’s dark form barely past the front step. He turns back and keeps running, deciding to take a hard left when he reaches the end of the lot.

He’s nearly at the road when he stumbles, his left foot slipping in a hole in the grass as it hits the ground. The alarms in his head blare as he tries to steady himself mid-step, and when his right foot lands it’s too lopsided, too twisted to keep him on his feet. He throws his hands out in a last effort to keep some semblance of pace but all of his weight falls on his right arm, his body landing hard enough that he hears the snap in his wrist before he feels it.

Rucastle is on him in moments, dragging him up by the back of his shirt and planting a fist into his stomach. Sherlock doubles over as the air rushes out of his lungs, leaving him faint combined with the red-hot pain rushing up his right arm. A sharp hit to the face and he’s thrown to the ground once more, struggling to his knees before a kick in the ribs sends him down again.

 _Why did you do that?_ He’s not even sure which voice is yelling at him; it sounds like it’s coming from everyone everywhere. _Why would you run?_

No rational answer comes to mind as he rolls onto his back, involuntarily flinching when he sees Rucastle’s face inches away from his own. The way he blocks the light makes Sherlock feel like he’s being watched by a shadow; he can’t even see the difference between iris and pupil.

“How come you think you’re smarter than everyone?” The frightening calm of Rucastle’s low, deep voice freezes Sherlock in place, as if he had any intention to try to flee again.

“Why do you care if one of us gets out?” he responds hoarsely, shifting ever so slightly to put a little more space between himself and the person hovering over him. All he’s managed to do thus far is to put a crack in the bottled-up fury he saw in Rucastle on the first day; for once, he doesn’t want to take another chance.

“You won’t be getting to the police before they get your girl to me,” Rucastle says. His face is still so emotionless, it’s impossible to read him. “Now, let’s get you back to your room.”

In one easy movement Rucastle stands, dragging Sherlock up by the scruff. He feels the unflinching, firm grip on the back of his shirt as he is pushed back to the house, moving forward numbly until he’s staggering down the stairs and back into the cellar with the taste of blood in his mouth.

He doesn’t turn to see Cipriott’s face when he hears her startled gasp. He knows he must look a wreck but he’s too tired now to care. All he does is drop onto his blanket while Rucastle slams the door behind him. The pain in his wrist feels less intense when he moves his body; the dull throbbing in his side hints at a fractured rib, the salt on his mouth makes light of a deep gash in his lower lip and a chunk of inner cheek cut by his teeth.

As he sinks into the thick warmth of the blanket beneath him, the only thought in Sherlock’s mind is resent. The memories of the beatings he lived through while he was dead remain immovable at the back of his mind. They can’t hurt him now. He doesn’t feel hate for Rucastle; he hates the person who landed him here. In that moment, breathing in the smell of cement and soil, all the anger he feels is directed not even at himself, but at Rhiannon Fletcher.

He was prepared to get away. An hour ago, he was ready. Now all he wants to do is sleep until he can’t wake up. He’s too exhausted to think about escaping, so he does what he’s done precisely eight times already: he curls up against the wet wall of the cellar and castigates himself for not sending the runner away when he had the chance.


	8. Chapter 8

If Molly had to pick a single word to describe the atmosphere in the dungeon that Mycroft called an office, she wouldn’t have hesitated to say _hostile_. John was ready to breathe fire, glaring at Rhiannon when she explained why she was out of service as long as she was, with Mary practically holding him in place. Molly was the one holding Rosie, sitting in the chair opposite the desk bouncing the little girl on her knee while she listened. Rhiannon, meanwhile, stood as far from John as she could manage in the small space, standing to Mycroft’s left and putting the length and width of the desk between them.

It wasn’t fair that he was directing all of his anger at her when her guilt only existed by proxy. She didn’t do anything wrong, did she?

A brief glance from Mycroft told Molly she hadn’t imagined the flicker in Rhiannon’s expression at the mention of the name Rucastle. The code that Mary explained was so vague Molly had no idea how she could have caught it, but that fraction of a second was enough to tell anyone who was looking that it wasn’t a fluke. And then the story came.

The disappearance of Zoe Rucastle in the spring of 2005, a woman high enough on the food chain that her occupation was described by Mycroft as only “a position in the British Government much akin to my own”. The subsequent discovery of her body in a forest outside the city a fortnight later, the result of an apparent suicide. The precaution to relocate her husband, Jephro, and their daughter, Alice, on the possibility of foul play. The inexplicable loss of their files in the madness of July. The explanation that the two were to be moved separately, and that the daughter was already situated when the data loss occurred.

The realisation that the person responsible for separating the father and daughter was in the room.

They were kicked out barely after that, only having time to explain what they knew before Mycroft picked up the phone and waved them away. He didn’t even ask Rhiannon to stay behind, so with no clue as to what to do next, the five of them simply got in their two separate cars and returned to the Watsons’ home to wait.

“It’s a multi-step process,” Rhiannon explains, mostly to John, who seemed to grow tired of staring daggers by the time they returned to sunlight. She walks around the living room like a professor giving a lecture, tying her newly-uncoloured brown waves into a tight bun while she talks. “All I was responsible for was getting Alice to the waypoint. From there all of her documentation was put together and she was brought to the new place with her guardians.”

“What happened to her dad?” John asks.

“He was supposed to meet her at the safe house a week later, and from there they were supposed to be moved into their own home together. But then the seventh happened and everything went to hell, runs were cancelled left and right and the paperwork for those got mixed up with the stuff that was still processing.”

“And he never left.”

Rhiannon shakes her head and crosses her arms tightly across her chest. “We lost Alice’s files. We had no way to track her. At best guess, her guardians realised what happened and followed protocol. If they did, she’ll still be with them. We just don’t know where they are, or what names they chose to go by.”

“What happened to her dad after?” Mary inquires. She shifts Rosie on her hip, unwilling to set her down while she rocks side to side on her feet. “I understand why he wants you. If you’re the one who took his daughter away from him I understand that he remembered you. But what happened to him to make him hate you enough to kidnap two people to get you to go to him?”

“When he found out about the data loss he went into a downward spiral. Really bad. Zoe’s family ended up getting him into a psych institute. He got better after a while, and he was released, even went and bought a house out on the back roads. Our people checked in every now and then to make sure he was all right because he was on some sort of medication after, but they stopped seeing that need a couple years back.”

“Does anybody else have a weird feeling about that house?”

Molly can’t stop herself from blurting out the thought, and when she looks up John and Mary have the same look of contemplation on their faces. The three of them turn to Rhiannon, who shakes her head emphatically.

“Hell no. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to keep them there.”

“You don’t know that,” Mary argues. “I’ll go with you if you want.”

“What do you want to do? Get in my car and drive out to see if he’s got a couple people in his basement?”

“Sure.”

“Not a chance,” John puts in. “I mean I know you’ve probably managed it before, but no.”

Molly almost wants to ask what he’s talking about, but her eyes are on Rhiannon as she purses her lips, leaning against the doorframe and looking up at the ceiling. The room is silent until she lets out a puff of air and nods.

“Should have quit while I was ahead,” she mumbles as she fishes her phone out of her jacket. “‘Thanks but no thanks, Sherlock. I think I’ll travel the world instead. You’ve worked on your own before, you shouldn’t need me to follow you around....’” Turning to Molly she says, “I have a fraction of a plan. When we get him back, I’m retiring.”

With that, she backs out of the room, bringing her phone to her ear.

 _You’d better hope she knows what she’s doing_ , Molly’s little voice warns.

* * *

 

He only could have slept for a short while, because his brain is still buzzing when he opens his eyes. Blinking hard, Sherlock lets his head fall back against the cold wall, staring over Cipriott’s shoulder where she sits in front of him.

“That’s the second time you’ve dropped off since I started,” she says softly. “Are you sure you didn’t land on your head? Or do you want it looser?”

Sherlock looks down at the compression bandage around his right hand, twisting his arm ever so slightly to test. Cipriott’s hands pull away, still holding the end of the bandage, allowing him to check the binding.

“If it’s too tight you’ll have to hold on while I unwind it.”

“It’s fine.”

“Be thankful he gave us this much to work with.” She spins the last of the bandage around his wrist and places the pins. “He could just as easily have left you to mess it up even more.”

“What a kind man,” Sherlock mutters, putting as much ice as possible in the words. He isn’t ungrateful for the supplies, but he can’t help the voices scolding him for not even trying properly to get out. He had no problem defending himself for two years when he was dealing with Moriarty’s network, no problem using his various skillsets to get in and out of any situation. But of course he had to choke now, giving a single hit and running like a child instead of laying into Rucastle like he knew he could.

Why did he do that?

“Your stomach’s fine, by the way. I checked it while you were clocked out the first time and all you’ve got is an ugly bruise. He probably just hit the nerves the right way.”

“Good to know.”

“And your mouth is fine apart from that stuff that comes out every now and then.”

“What stuff?”

“Noise.”

He lets out half a laugh in spite of himself, very nearly smiling. “That sounded like her just then. Apart from the accent.”

“We’re all chameleons in our own ways.”

“You’re not from Malta.”

“What made you think I was?”

“Cipriott is a Maltese name. I assumed you picked it because a name like Smith wouldn’t fit particularly comfortably.”

A scowl flickers on Cipriott’s face, but if he’s hit a nerve, she doesn’t mention it. He wishes she would. Molly would.

“I’d like to know what you were thinking trying to run from someone with longer legs than yours.”

“So would I,” he sighs, uncrossing his legs and pulling his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on top. “I pride myself on my thoroughness, my ability to react quickly and decisively. I can’t think of a single reason why running made sense, less why I didn’t defend myself after.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

“Because someone else already did?”

“Because it’s not worth it,” Cipriott says sternly. “If you’d cooperated you’d have ended up back here anyway so there’s no point in complaining. You should know by now that your brain won’t do what you want every time. You can plan your entire life from one point, hone your skills to perfection, prepare yourself for any eventuality, but unexpected things will still happen because you’re human and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Please don’t go on about my insignificance in contrast to the infinite universe and my enormity compared to the specimens under an electron microscope. I’m well aware that impossible things happen because they’re just possible enough.”

Cipriott sits back on her heels, a small smile at the corners of her mouth. She knows he just agreed with her in a circumlocutory way and he is more than glad to see that she has no intention of carrying on, patting him on the knee and moving back to her own blanket a little ways away. She sprawls out on her stomach, laying her head in her arms and looking up through the little window near the ceiling. The clean light coming through makes her look content, and he feels the familiar twinge of annoyance at her acceptance of their situation.

“How did he get you?” he asks. In an effort to make Cipriott invisible, he flops down onto his back with his good arm behind his head and the bandaged one over his stomach. “Rucastle.”

“I’d rather not grace that question with an answer. You’re not the only one who’s supposed to have mastered defense tactics.”

 _Fair enough_ , he supposes. He can’t criticise her for not wanting to admit a weakness. Fletcher is much the same in that sense: a woman ashamed to fail at worst and proud to have succeeded at best. He would call it sad if it weren’t hypocritical; he used to consider anything and everything a weakness. Food slows down the body. Sleep is a waste of time. Trivia takes up space. Friendship is a disadvantage. How could he have been so incredibly _wrong_? What was so terrible about eating and sleeping regularly, enjoying tiny irrelevant facts, having family not related by blood, and investing in all of it? Letting his feet move without reason was infinitely less foolish than believing he could live without the kinds of love that he once avoided as defects and distractions. Without Lestrade he’d have wasted away before the end of his third decade; without John he’d have started looking for creative ways to self-destruct; Molly wasn’t even present for one of the events where she saved him.

Molly.

He spent more time in Germany with Fletcher than he has in this cellar with Cipriott so far. The comfort of home is what he longs for, something warmer and softer than here. When he returned to Baker Street for the first time nearly two years ago – _only_ two years ago – the first thing he did was to stand on the sofa, press his cheek to the wall, and watch his hand brush over the wallpaper. It was his physical proof, the scents of years past and the sight of his fingertips tracing the designs that told him that it was real and he was home to stay. And Molly is part of home now, has become the wallpaper, the one he goes to when the door opens. It can’t be the first time he’s thought it, but at the moment the intensity of how much he misses not only Molly, but Rosamund and John and Mary as well, is loud and frightening.

A handful of fingers clicking in front of his nose gets just enough of his attention that he turns his head to look at the person it belongs to. Looking past her, Sherlock sees the small box that contained the bandages has been replaced with the more familiar one that meals come down in.

“Lost you for a bit there,” Cipriott says, her tone light but her face worried. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Just bored,” he lies, and without allowing his cellmate the time to see it on his face, he pulls himself to his feet to see what their lord and master has brought down for lunch.

* * *

 

“Okay, you need to slow down so I can get all of this. Your accent’s impossible when you talk fast.”

“Sorry, sorry, I just don’t want to leave anything out, you know?”

“I know, Annie. It’s a lot you’re asking for on short notice, though.”

“I’ll pay them all out of pocket. You can tell them that when you call them.”

“Can you even afford all of this? I know you can pay cash for a castle, but if you really think tomorrow is the earliest you can get this done, can we get everyone there in time?”

“God, I hope so. Put the paramedics at the top of the list just in case, skeleton tactics at the bottom. If what I’ve got going here turns out the way I want it, I won’t need them.”

“If it doesn’t?”

_Fuck, it probably won’t, will it?_

Annie leans forward to check the living room to make sure Molly and the Watsons are still inside. She doesn’t need them to come out and start arguing that she’s jumping the shark. As if she hasn’t made insane leaps and landed safely before. Jep Rucastle, though, he wasn’t exactly friendly after his release. Knowing he’s got a cabinet full of medication for half a dozen psychiatric disorders doesn’t make her feel particularly confident that he’ll play along.

Best case scenario, he wants to talk. Tells her to find Alice and, what, dumps Sherlock at her feet and keeps the other person until she brings him his kid? She’ll be a stubborn teenager by now.

He’s not going to do that. He’s going to shoot her in the head for taking the only thing he had left and be done with it. They said he used to hunt. It wouldn’t be difficult for him to see her as a deer for five seconds, would it?

“Fuck,” she whimpers, dropping back against the wall. _Why are you so scared? You’ve dived into blacker water before! Come on, girl._ “Stan’s got my mum’s number.”

She hears Greg take the phone away from his ear on the other end, probably putting it down on his desk to rub at his eyes. It’s not the first time she’s stressed him out so much. Biting at the inside of her cheek, she waits for him to come back on the line.

“Look,” he says gravely, “you get ready. I’ll take care of this.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You weren’t sorry when you were nicking food from strangers’ buffets, were you?”

A laugh bubbles up from her throat at the reminder of how she met the cop on her nineteenth birthday. She’s come a long way from scheduling her meals around banquet hall festivities. “Can’t blame a girl for being hungry.”

“No I can’t. Relax a bit and get your plan together. I’ll phone when I get through the list.”

“I owe you a cottage for this one, sir.”

“You owe me a detective. Now get off the phone; I have to get my lunch to go today.”

“Love ya, Gregory.”

“You’d better. Talk soon, kiddo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the risk of sounding like an extremely broken record, I still greatly appreciate your reading, and the comments and kudos that come my way. Any number is its own type of feedback and I thank you so much.
> 
> Also I have to confess that a few days ago was the first time I watched The Great Mouse Detective and it was fantastic.


	9. Chapter 9

_Married, parent, neither. Planner, resourceful. Impatience ranges in hostility. Mood seemingly unchanging. Expressiveness diminished._

_Why? Think. Consider personal._

_Creating a barrier between self and others? Fear? Separation? Possible._

_Diminished. Dampened. Blunted._

_Blunted affect. Affective disorder._

_Schizoaffective. Schizoid. Schizotypal. Schizophrenic._

_Knew the difference. Deleted the information._

_Stupid._

Sherlock’s eyes scan the bathroom as he walks back and forth in the small steamy space, carefully removing the clips from the compression bandage around his broken wrist. He pauses in his pacing to set the clips beside the sink, resuming his movements while unwinding the bandage, left hand spinning around right until he feels the touch of air on his skin. He sets the coil next to the clips and examines his hand, making an effort to turn his arm at the elbow to keep the wrist straight.

What began looking like an out of place bump on the outside of his hand has transformed into an enflamed lump, nearly black at the centre and fading outward to purple and red and sickly yellow. Where his skin isn’t bruised he sees light indentations from the bandage, which must have become slightly too tight as the wound swelled. As much as he wants to feel around to determine where exactly the break is, any pressure feels like a live wire running up his arm. He fractured the plate in his left wrist as a child, falling out of a tree when the branch he was reaching for snapped with his weight. That had only given him minor discomfort and had required a brace that made his hand itch. The idea of a cast isn’t an unwelcome one in this case.

He stops in front of the mirror, turning to scowl at his foggy reflection. The inconveniences of a broken wrist have been presenting themselves in an ever-growing list all morning. Even with the slow process of taking off and putting on his clothes, showering without the bandage or with it and avoiding getting it wet, applying toothpaste to the brush while it rested on the edge of the sink, and shaving with his weaker hand, the thing that annoys Sherlock the most about the result of his own idiocy is something completely outside of daily routine. To other people, at least.

He can live with writing with his left hand and texting and typing more slowly for a time. What will drive him up the wall will be that that landing wrong landed him with a break that could render him incapable of playing the violin for weeks. He’s made a habit of playing for Molly whenever she comes home looking tired, but he’s unsure of how he could manage that with a cast holding his wrist straight and possibly keeping his fingers apart.

“Enough of that,” he tells himself, straightening up and looking around the room once more. “What do I have? What do I have, what do I have...?”

Razors, brushes, toothbrushes, floss, toothpaste. No. The blades would be too small to do much and everything else is useless. Shampoo, soap? Maybe. The travel kit is still in the drawer; if he were to fill one of the bottles... But what use would it be to throw up all over the floor he has to sleep on?

He could flood the tub or the toilet, but he would only be causing trouble, wasting time and water.

“What do I _have_?” he urges himself, opening and closing drawers and cabinets looking for _something_ that might give him an idea.

An idea for what, he isn’t quite sure. All it is now is a waiting game, and if he behaves he and Cipriott will be able to leave without hassle. He’d be concerned for Fletcher is he weren’t sure of her ability to take care of herself; one man armed with tranquilisers must be less work than thirteen with real bullets. Even if he has baggage.

With a resigned sigh, Sherlock picks up the bandage and the clips and knocks on the door.

Seconds turn into minutes while he leans against the sink, waiting for the sound of the latch. He’s never heard footsteps leaving or approaching the door, assuming Rucastle stood outside listening for any sound he deemed abnormal. Sherlock didn’t hear him walk away before he turned on the water today, but he supposes Rucastle could have left knowing he couldn’t do much damage with only one hand; the hand that now chucks the bandage and clips back to the counter and curls into a fist, banging on the door impatiently.

“Any time you want to let me out,” Sherlock calls, annoyed at his captor’s sudden diversion from routine. Knock, three seconds, click. That was how they’ve done it all week. Why is he still standing in here five minutes later?

 _You_ would _be annoyed with your kidnapper_ , the voice of John says, sounding more amused than the real John would be. The real John would be telling him to relax and stop being an idiot about being shut in a bathroom. He makes a mental note to edit Mind Palace John to be less prickly, as he’s tried to do over and over in the past few months. Mind Palace John can sod off.

He’s seconds short of kicking the door in irritation when the lock finally clicks on the other side. Sherlock turns the handle and yanks the door open roughly, his scowl dropping into a wide-eyed stare when his eyes fall much lower than expected.

Cipriott presses a finger to her lips and takes a step into the room, keeping one foot in the door to stop it closing and locking them in. She reaches around for the bandage, wrapping Sherlock’s hand while he stands frozen in place, trying to decipher exactly how she got upstairs alone.

“He came down,” she explains in a whisper. Her hands move in smooth circles as she winds the bandage around his arm. “Didn’t say anything; I think he was just waiting to see if I’d ask to come up and help you. He split about a minute before the water stopped running though, like he heard something. Left the doorstop where it was. It just bounced right back open.”

“And you didn’t think to get up and leave?” he manages, still staring at the redhead. He knows her response already; it was a stupid question, but his mouth formed the words regardless. _What’s the matter with you?_

“I figured he’d be coming back down. Waited a few minutes, then I heard the door upstairs. I came up to get you as soon as I heard him say ‘Don’t move.’”

His wrist aches at how tightly Cipriott has wrapped the bandage, but he doesn’t complain as she clips it in place and gestures for him to follow. His fingers twitch as they step out of the small bathroom, moving silently along the wall toward the main room of the house. He follows inches behind Cipriott, his heart curiously quiet.

He walks into her hand when she puts it out to stop him. She slinks forward, peeking out into the room, keeping completely still for a moment before waving him to the other side of the hall. He obeys immediately, dropping into a crouch as he moves to the opposite wall, mirroring Cipriott’s stance as she watches the scene. They could just get up and walk out the back door, or even the front door, but apparently curiosity reigns over the pair of them. So they sit and watch.

Fletcher is almost unrecognisable without her bleached hair and leather jacket. She looks shockingly average, a small, pale girl looking squarely at the tall, dark man halfway across the room, pointing a trank gun at her chest. She appears an intruder, standing just inside the door in a dark set of t-shirt and shorts, brown hair tied up in a way that he, Sherlock, knows to mean business. A glance to Cipriott tells him that she knows it too; her face is hardened, no longer passive and patient. He follows her eyes to the gun hanging loose in Fletcher’s hand. She doesn’t plan to use it.

Sherlock’s eyes move back to Rucastle, examining the man’s expression from his profile. He would be able to see both of them if he simply turned; perhaps he already knows they’re there.

The standoff is silent, judging. Rucastle’s hand trembles ever so slightly as he stares down the round-faced woman fifteen feet away. His expression is no longer the blank mask Sherlock grew accustomed to, his mouth pressed into a tight line and his eyes endlessly flickering from fury to anxiety to sadness and back.

And still, neither Sherlock nor Cipriott makes to move. They sit, transfixed, as if the scene before them is from a film and not real life.

Fletcher doesn’t speak. Her arms stay at her sides, refusing to raise or drop her gun. From where he sits, Sherlock can’t tell if the gun is hers or not. The idea of Fletcher using proper bullets almost makes him feel ill.

 _Come on_ , he wants to shout, _do something!_

He flinches when he sees Rucastle move, letting his arm fall to his side. He doesn’t replace the safety or move his finger from the trigger, but the action is enough that Fletcher lets out a breath that Sherlock didn’t know she was holding. He wonders if she’ll be the first to speak. Waiting is a tactic she used on him when she was his runner and he was facing a wall of dead ends. She let him go first.

She doesn’t now.

“I want you to know that I have friends two minutes out,” she says calmly. “You can surrender yourself, go out to the road, and they’ll pick you up and I can get my friends. I know they’re here.”

“Maybe not,” Rucastle replies after a pause. “I didn’t spend all this time and energy getting you here just to look at you.”

If the thought of Fletcher using the gun was unpleasant, the sight of her placing it on the floor is downright sickening. “Do what you will,” she tells him. Then she adds formally, “I accept that I caused you pain by taking the only thing you had left. I take responsibility for your institutionalisation and hardships. If you so demand, I promise to do everything within my power to bring back what I lost.” She swallows hard and grits her teeth before finishing, “I think about her all the time, Jephro. There’s nothing I won’t do to try and bring her back if you want me to.”

Rucastle glares back, silent. Sherlock doesn’t allow himself to wonder what he would do in the other man’s place. They’re too different, and he’s got far too many trust issues to be able to understand.

It is while she waits for Rucastle’s response that Fletcher’s eyes begin to roam, scanning the room, falling fleetingly on the corridor where Sherlock and Cipriott watch and looking directly at each of them for a fraction of a second. Her face reveals little, a worrisome thing to note since she openly expresses her confidence in any given situation and hides her anxiety in any other. The only thing that calmness shows as she lets her eyes fall shut and takes a deep breath is her resolve to get four people out painlessly.

A goal that Sherlock is afraid she won’t meet as Rucastle raises his gun once more — then turns it around so it faces himself.

 _What?_ Sherlock turns to Cipriott with a raised brow, seeing her own surprise at the turn of events. _He just finished saying he wasn't going to surrender himself...._

But Rucastle doesn't move an inch as Fletcher stoops to retrieve her own gun, then steps forward to take the other from his hand.

_What?!_

“They're downstairs,” he tells her.

“Come on,” Fletcher calls, looking over her shoulder at the audience of two as Rucastle steps around her to lead the way outside. She keeps the tranquiliser pointed in his direction, watching him in her peripheral.

Cipriott rises instantly, Sherlock more slowly. “Is that it?” he asks, actively sneering at the anticlimax of his week as a hostage.

“That’s it,” Fletcher confirms with a smile. “Let’s go.”

As a group of three they follow Rucastle out into the cloudy day. Fletcher pulls her phone out of nowhere and dials, bringing it to her ear to inform the person on the other end of the line that “everybody was extracted safely”. The call is short, and she stows the mobile in her back pocket when they reach the end of the lawn.

The blandness isn’t lost on Sherlock, but when he spots the familiar blue Fiesta among a half dozen cars a short way down the road, he decides he wouldn’t have cared much for theatrics anyway. And when they meet Lestrade halfway and he is trapped in a crushing hug, he finds that he only wants to go home, change into pyjamas, and sleep away the next five days.

Who needs excitement all the time?

* * *

 

“If you look under here – I can’t turn him over but you can see the scrape on the back of his calf, which is something that happens rather often if you miss a step on low wood steps, the way they’re put together. There’s a space, you see, where your heel can get caught if you slip, and it can cut rather deep if you can’t regain your footing.... Anyway, that with the flatness of the head trauma – you couldn’t really do that to a person unless you were well-aimed with a cricket bat or a plank of wood – is suggestive of a fall down the stairs. It’s very likely this rounder wound here was one of the last steps just before the landing. I haven’t worked with Sherlock as often as John, but this looks to me like an unfortunate accident.”

Molly stands at her fullest height, smiling up at the lanky pair of officers across the table. A Mr. Henry Willett rests between them looking rather purple around the head, causing Molly no discomfort but apparently setting Inspector Gregson and Sergeant Hopkins ill at ease. She is nearly a full foot shorter than the yellow-haired, square-faced inspector, but she twiddles her fingers happily knowing that her analysis of Mr. Willett’s state is almost certainly accurate.

She’s having a good day, finally. Not once has she looked over her shoulder hoping somebody would show up and give her some news. She’s confident that Sherlock will be coming home very soon, and the only trouble she’s having with herself is her feet trying to leave the ground. Hopkins the ginger Bambi seems to see it, because Molly has been on the receiving end of a knowing smile a few times since the two policemen came in to examine Mr. Willett.

“I suppose I’ll have to apologise to the wife, then,” Gregson says, shrugging self-consciously. “She was pretty upset at being asked in, but it’s part of the job, you know?”

“Greg’s had to do his fair share of apologising,” Molly confides, still grinning. “Have you worked with DI Lestrade, Stanley?”

“Not yet,” the Bambi-faced Hopkins admits. “I’d like to. It’d be fun to work with him and Sherlock Holmes, I think.”

Molly is about to mention that half the time Greg doesn’t even find it fun to work with Sherlock, but before the words leave her open mouth, the flitting sound of her text alert rings from the pocket of her jeans.

“That’s embarrassing.” The two men share a short laugh as she checks the notification. “Speak of the devil,” she murmurs, opening Greg’s text.

“Well I suppose if the good Inspector Lestrade is trying to steal your attention, we should be on our way,” Gregson says. “Thank you for your help – Miss Hooper? Doctor Hooper?”

“Molly. It was my pleasure.”

Molly stows her phone as Gregson and Hopkins make their way out, opting to check the message after putting Mr. Willett away. She makes quick work of it, cleaning the area and washing up before taking her phone out in the office.

_One message waiting to download._

“Since when do you send me photos?” she asks no one, tapping the message and waiting for the image to appear. When it does, her heart skips a beat and she nearly drops her phone to the floor.

The timing is unflattering, one face twisted in a large yawn and the other scrunched as if in concentration. Sherlock, sitting across from Rhiannon, looking perfectly fine, if not tired. Rhiannon, her elfin nose inches away from the plain white cast on Sherlock’s hand, apparently drawing something on it that requires her full attention.

 _Sherlock_ , her little voice says on repeat. _Sherlock, it’s Sherlock, Sherlock’s here, where is he?_

 _Where are you?!_ she texts back, tossing her phone to the desk and yanking off her lab coat. The text alert rings again with Greg’s response just as she’s hefting her bag onto her shoulder, and with nary a backward glance, Molly is out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for waiting so long, you know I appreciate everyone who reads and waits and provides kudos and comments....
> 
> I'd apologize for being frustrating but you know what, the world needs some unexciting resolutions. As if it's actually resolved, though.
> 
> Thanks again.


	10. Chapter 10

Heavy droplets hit the window in arrhythmic taps, becoming more and more frequent as the clock above the door ticks with the passing seconds. He counts the raindrops until he can’t, head tipped back against the glass cooled by the change in the outside air. It only takes a few minutes to reach this area from her office but in the empty room it feels like ages have passed instead. When he finally hears her footsteps they sound so soft, so much lighter than he’s heard all week; he knows she’s running, but trying to cause as little distraction as possible to the people outside.

He barely has time to get to his feet before Molly flies into the room and slams into him, wrapping her arms around his waist and holding on as if her life depends on it. With a content sigh Sherlock hugs her back, one arm around her shoulders and the other cradling her head, his cheek resting against her hair as she leans into him. They sway on the spot in their own quiet bubble, accompanied only the sound of the rain against the window. When he became so fond of hugging Sherlock has no idea, but at the moment he feels as though he would be happy never to move again, revelling in the feel of her small hands clutching the fabric of his shirt and the scent of chemicals on her hair.

“You’ve spent too much time here,” he murmurs. “There’s always a bit of strawberry left when you get home after a regular shift. And you’re practically using me as a pillow. How many hours have you worked this week?”

“Probably too many,” Molly admits, snuggling even tighter against him. “It’s been too quiet. Toby’s done nothing but sleep...”

“And you can’t stand to do nothing.” Sherlock pulls back slightly, waiting for Molly to loosen her hold and look up at him so he can see her properly. The deep lines and dark circles around her eyes tell him enough about her state, that she’s too tired to pretend otherwise. He brings his hand to her cheek, trying to soften the lines with his thumb, bringing a small smile to her tired face that he mirrors unconsciously. He presses a kiss to her forehead and pulls her back in. “Molly Hooper,” he says, not caring to chastise her for being under stress. If their roles had been reversed, he’d have fared far worse.

“Sherlock Holmes,” she responds. “I didn’t expect you to be this... clean.”

“I suppose we were fortunate to have someone who preferred his hostages to be hygienic.”

“You smell wrong. Like someone else’s soap.”

“I thought you were glad I came back clean?”

“I am. I just like you smelling like you.” It’s Molly’s turn to pull away, bringing her hands up to his face to press lightly on the bruise beneath his left eye and the closed cut on his bottom lip. “I also like you coming home in one piece. Did he do this to you too?” she asks, reaching up to the arm resting on her shoulder and tapping her knuckle against his cast.

“That was my own fault and somewhat embarrassing,” Sherlock admits with a frown.

“You fell on it trying to run away, didn’t you?”

His mouth pops open and it takes him a moment to snap it shut, and even then it remains in a pout. Molly simply smiles up at him and pats his cheek in mock patronisation.

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“Thank you.”

“What I _am_ going to do is go back downstairs and clean up and sign out, and then I’ll be able to take you home and get you in bed.” Her eyes widen at her poor choice of words and he can’t help but laugh over her defensive “You know what I meant!”

“Come on, then,” he says, taking her by the hand and walking with her to the lifts. “I’m sure paying for the cab will be worth it to _take me home and get me in bed_.”

He is rewarded with a light smack on the shoulder as the lift doors open and they enter the empty elevator, and when the doors close, Sherlock pulls Molly close to his side and presses his lips to her cheek for no reason other than to tell her he missed her.

* * *

 

It’s an automatic reflex to reach for the phone as soon as it rings. With one hand wringing the sheet beneath her, Mary fumbles blindly for her mobile on the bedside table, her eyes squeezed shut and her hips writhing and pulling her body farther down the bed. She turns her head and opens her eyes for just a second to see where the damn thing even is, spotting it just out of reach before a slow swipe of a tongue has her throwing her head back and gasping.

“Let them leave a message,” John’s voice says from under the blankets. He returns to his task without another word and she finds she has no problem ignoring the ringing when his hands are holding her thighs that tightly and his mouth is working her into such a mess that she has to bite her hand to avoid screaming out loud.

Afterward, when she is lying there feeling heavier than a bag of lead and John is tracing the stretch marks on her abdomen with his fingertips, Mary remembers the phone, dropping a lazy hand over the device and dragging it off the table and bringing it up to her nose to see who called. A small 1 hovers beside her messaging folder as well as her call log, and she checks the latter first.

“Molly phoned,” she says.

“Did she leave a message?”

“No, but...” She backs out of her call log and opens messaging to check the text. She’s almost embarrassed to hand her phone over to John, but the text – from Sherlock’s phone – is proof enough that he was brought home unscathed.

_I understand that oral is fun for all those involved but Molly is insisting that everybody gather at Baker Street for dinner later. Phone her back please. S_

“Dickhead,” John grumbles, passing the phone back for Mary to toss it back to the table. “How could he possibly have deduced that?”

“Might have something to do with the fact that it’s the only time I don’t answer the phone,” Mary quips, raising a brow at her husband. “Can’t be that difficult a leap when he can see a shag on someone the next day.”

“Yes, all right, that’s fair. D’you want to shower first?”

“Nah, you go on and I’ll phone Molly. The little one’s due to wake up from her nap soon so don’t be too long.”

“Yes ma’am,” John says, kissing his wife firmly before rolling out of bed and gathering a fresh set of clothes.

* * *

 

While it wasn’t the first time Molly’s energy was drained by a crowd, it may have been the first time she got tired of it before Sherlock did. Maybe it was the five days of being isolated and only seeing two other faces. _Was it only five? Wasn’t it more?_ Maybe it was all the positive attention he was receiving that had nothing to do with his usefulness, or possibly the fact that at least half of his time was spent carrying Rosamund around the flat and nibbling on her dimpled cheeks. Whatever the reason, Sherlock had never seemed less miserable in the middle of a social gathering, and Molly was happy for him.

It was quite a surprise to have him introduce her to a woman she’d already met, and even more of a surprise to see him yank Sarah off her feet in a tight hug when she mentioned their single encounter. Molly never did consider that Sherlock would be grateful for the runner who brought her to Baker Street instead of to her home the day of the broadcast, a day far gone but not so long ago that Molly didn’t remember the significance of it or recognise the young woman’s beautiful auburn-framed face and almond eyes – and, still envious, her gorgeous wedge boots.

Rhiannon had come and gone quickly, dropping in to say hello and goodbye and to have a word with Greg and Sarah before leaving with a simple “I’ll be busy for a while.” Everybody understood and nobody argued, and Molly knew she would likely be carrying a renewed badge when she was finished with her mission.

The biggest shock of all came at the end of the night, after Rhiannon’s short appearance, after Mrs. Hudson went downstairs to bed, after Sarah quietly asked Greg to drive her home, after Mary and John had left with sleepy Rosie, after the mountain of takeaway containers had been disposed of or otherwise resealed and stored in the refrigerator. Less than a minute after Molly collapsed onto the sofa with Sherlock following immediately behind to lay his head on her lap, her phone had begun to ring. Sherlock had been about to hand it to her, not before glancing at the caller ID, and upon seeing that the number belonged to Mycroft he’d sat up and answered. She left him to talk to his brother alone, heading to the bedroom to change into her pyjamas.

She’s lying on top of the covers when he comes into the room and places her mobile on her table. He doesn’t speak as he undresses and pulls on his pyjama bottoms and throws himself facedown onto the bed with a groan. The bruise on his side is big and ugly, red and purple and yellow, and the way it blends into the wide, jagged scars on his back has her swallowing a lump in her throat. Propping herself up on an elbow she runs her hands over the worst of them, her fingers trailing over his shoulders, her light touch pulling a soft sigh from his lips.

“How was your phone call?”

“Five months is hardly a record for Mycroft and me.”

“I’m glad you’re talking again, then.”

“It’s rather anticlimactic,” Sherlock muses, looking up at her without lifting his head.

“With Mycroft? How do you mean?” Her fingers follow the ridge of his spine, down to his hips and back up to his neck before diving into his hair. His eyes close and he lets out a hum as she runs her hand through his curls.

“With Rucastle. It was over in two minutes. They brought a whole team for when it went awry and all he wanted in the end was for her to promise to help him. All she did was take responsibility.”

“I guess even the professionals can’t always predict the outcome of events.”

“It just feels needless. Wasteful. He put so much time into a thought-out plan and didn’t even think to—”

“Stop,” Molly commands, shuffling forward to close the space between herself and Sherlock. “It’s out of your hands now, love. You’re safe, Sarah is safe, Rucastle is safe, Rhiannon is safe, and that’s all that matters. From here on out it’s none of our business.”

Sherlock purses his lips and gives a small nod but carries on talking. “Should I be affected by the knowledge of what happened to him after he lost his wife and child within weeks of each other? Should I take back what I said and avoid the discussion of children so I won’t have to be burdened by the potential loss? Or should I wish to love someone so completely that I wouldn’t know what to do if I lost them?”

“Where is this coming from?” Molly asks, alarmed.

“Hypothetically,” Sherlock says quickly, bringing his hand up to her neck, his thumb brushing over her cheek. His expression softens in an attempt to calm her pounding heart, her pulse beating hard against his fingers. “I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to, Molly. It’s a hypothetical question.”

“I think... it would depend on the person,” she decides, her mind racing as her heart slows. “Everybody has the possibility of losing everything they’ve gained, but the person who doesn’t take the risk is probably more afraid of the loss than wanting of the gain. When I think of the number of children I’ve had on my table I never want to have a family of any kind, but when I see you with Rosie I want babies in the plural.” The admission elicits a deep chuckle from Sherlock that she can feel in her chest and she smiles back at him, feeling herself relax at the way his eyes lit up. “What was the question again?”

“Is it worth it to love someone that completely?”

“Oh. Yes,” she says with certainty. “Yes, I think it is. Now go to sleep; you have a book to finish tomorrow.”

“Don’t distract me from it, then,” Sherlock says, turning around to switch off the lamp on his side.

“I’ll try not to use my powers of seduction on you before you’re done.”

Molly reaches over to turn off her lamp, casting the room in darkness. She cuddles up against Sherlock, trying to give him enough space to get comfortable with the cast, eventually finding her spot nuzzling his collarbone. His breathing evens out within minutes, and soon after, she too is asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fletcher's writing on Sherlock's cast was going to come up, and then it got cut because I couldn't decide whether it would be the asexual or demisexual pride flag, the signature of someone who doesn't want people to know she has bad penmanship, or "This hand belongs to Molly Hooper's ass." There were a lot of cuts made in this story. I hope you've still enjoyed it.
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking around. I know I'm a broken record but I really do appreciate it. You're wonderful.
> 
> Now here is the end, or possibly the beginning.

His sense of time is lost. All he’s sure of is that hours have passed with him lying there, because the stars have moved. He’s been waiting for the glimmering specks to be visible at night; without a cloud in the sky, they look like tiny holes in a dark curtain made blue-black by the light of the bright white circle of the moon. It’s incredibly beautiful and calming, and he does what he can to store the view in his memory.

The cool breeze brings the scents of wet concrete and grass up to him from the ground. The storm was phenomenal, amazingly loud and so heavy it drowned out everything else. The dark purple clouds seemed to stretch over the entire world, lightning illuminating the sky from deep inside or snapping down in jagged forks. He ran through the rain, just for something to do after the power went out. It was reckless and unsafe but he hadn’t cared much, and he returned home breathless, drenched, and completely and utterly exhilarated.

After the storm came a day of sunshine like a reward for accepting the rain, and now, the opportunity to stargaze has finally presented itself. The sounds of city traffic and the orange light from below are so far in the background of his mind that they barely exist.

The old blanket is thick and rough with age, folded in half so the roughness of the roof isn’t a bother. His back is warmed by the layers as he lies with his legs stretched out, his casted arm, decorated with signatures of friends and acquaintances and even clients, resting over his stomach and his good arm acting as a pillow behind his head. He’s perfectly relaxed like this, lying completely still and watching the world spin.

His mind used to demand activity, endlessly craving stimulation and rejecting the banality and mediocrity of “normal life”. He needed the work to avoid the drugs, needed the drugs to avoid the noise. But the noise, he recently discovered, is more like writing on a wall. It could be painted over, decorated, with sounds and images and simple sensations to let flow the chemicals in the unused time. The slower pace doesn’t have to be an opportunity for his inner demons to lash out. With an extra pair of hands, the noise could become music. The way he sees it, science is an art, and art a science. The two are made to coexist.

It’s odd, he thinks, that all this self-reflection has come after. In retrospect, he thought it would happen in the hours he spent sitting in that dank cellar doing bugger all. He’s almost glad that all he could think of in those times was that he missed everyone and how bored he was and how he wished his cellmate would stop watching him. It was so different from his time unwinding the strings of Moriarty’s network. More confusing. Less frightening.

The sound of crunching pebbles finds his ears and Sherlock tilts his head back to look. He knows who belongs to the footsteps, but seeing Molly approaching with a drawstring bag on her back puts a smile on his face. He sits up to give her space on the blanket and she removes the bag from her shoulders as she takes her place beside him.

“I know it’s not very cold out,” she says, pulling a pair of travel mugs out of the bright green bag, “but I made tea.”

“You made tea to bring up here to me?” He accepts the mug she holds out to him, setting it on the ground and opening the cap with his good hand. “What time is it?”

“About eleven.”

“Hmm.”

They sit in silence for what feels like years, looking up at the night sky and slowly drinking their tea. He can practically feel her thinking, wanting to tell him that she wishes he wouldn’t come up to the roof alone. He wishes she wouldn’t worry so much, but he supposes she has every right to be concerned. It’s completely understandable for her to want him to promise to stay on the ground, stay in sight, stay close. He looks to her, sitting beside him cross-legged, her tied-back hair blowing ever so slightly in the rooftop breeze.

She lets out a sigh and shuffles closer to him, resting her head on the side of his arm and taking his left hand in both of hers. She turns her eyes to the sky, a wistful smile on her face. Sometimes he doesn’t know whether their short exchanges are whole conversations. It’s only when he sees that her expression is one of contentment that he knows she’s satisfied, communicating with synchronous thoughts instead of words. He wonders if it’s actually something to strive for in a relationship, this kind of space, but she knows when she needs to push him to talk, and he knows when she’s about to do so. They are satellites, orbiting around each other with ease, sharing information without making a sound.

He’ll never be able to memorise all of her. At the moment, he’s considering her face, illuminated by the clear light of the moon. The faraway look in her eyes has him curious about what’s happening inside her mind, what she sees. He doesn’t try to break in. He just watches in reverence, continuously amazed at the fact that she’s here at all. Having her, being hers, is something Sherlock hadn’t realised he wanted, and now he doesn’t know how he ever did without. He feels similarly about the rest of his family, the ones he isn’t connected to by blood, but not as strongly as he does with her.

Molly’s eyes drift away from the sky and she tilts her head upward to meet his gaze, her thin lips turning up at the sides in a warm smile.

“I’ve been thinking,” she says.

“I do like that.” He fights back a grin at the _hush, you_ look Molly shoots his way. “What have you been thinking about, Molly Hooper?”

“All the things you’ve shared with me. Secrets. Thoughts. You.”

Even in the dark her eyes are bright, the lines on her face are like an artist’s pencil strokes, and he sees the most radiant thing in the universe. And to think he used to scoff at such infatuation.

“I have something for you,” he says, his mental cogs clicking into place. “Let’s go in.”

He ignores the chatter in the back of his mind that carries on until they’re back inside Flat B, Molly vowing to stay on the bed with her eyes closed while Sherlock makes his way back into the main room. The instant his eyes fall on the small cabinet between the desk and the right-hand window, everything inside and outside becomes silence.

With a glance over his shoulder to check if Molly has snuck out for a peek, Sherlock walks over to the cabinet and, placing a hand firmly on top, tilts it until he can pull out the key hidden underneath. He unlocks the bottom drawer, moving the leftover Brook files out of the way before reaching in for the small box hidden away at the very back and bottom of the drawer.

He sits on the floor with the drawer still open, simply staring for a moment at the ring nestled the midnight blue velvet, watching as the gold transforms from a simple thin band into leaves on a golden stem with a shining rose in the centre of it all. It is small enough not to be heavy, the gold and the ruby intricately and securely nestled together so that it will cause her no grief with her knitted mittens in the winter. The moment he saw it, he knew it had to be hers. There were others, larger and showier, with more expensive stones, but they were garish and heavy and wrong. It had to be this one.

He can’t even remember when he bought it. Weeks ago, or yesterday? It feels like it’s been hiding at the back of his mind for months. Since March? Since January? Since the night of the broadcast, when she stayed with him only to make sure he wasn’t lonely and afraid?

It doesn’t matter. It’s here, they’re here, and he knows it’s going to be now.

He plays at the smooth velvet with his fingertips, tilting the box this way and that to see how the ruby catches the orange light from the lamp a few feet away. It looks marvellous anywhere, the dark of the lamp cover giving the stone a deeper red shine, the light of the uncovered bulb making it glow. He wonders how it might look under the lights at Bart’s, in the lab, in her office, in the hallways...

With one final grin down at the golden leaves, Sherlock replaces the papers and closes the drawer, heading back to the bedroom with the box in hand.

“On my word,” he says when he enters the room, seeing Molly sat exactly where she was a moment ago, her hands on her knees and her eyes closed. She nods and tries to stop her excited wiggling, always so enthusiastic for any kind of surprise coming her way. Not wanting to accidentally be kicked by her fidgeting legs, Sherlock kneels beside her, making sure to at least get the _down on one knee_ part right, and brings the box out from where he held it behind his back.

And with his heart pounding in his ears at the sheer excitement of this being the beginning of the rest of his mad life, he takes a steadying breath and says, “Open.”


End file.
